


Winter in Iron Valley

by Lasenby_Heathcote, tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Secret Wars Battleworlds
Genre: Alcoholism, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Flashbacks, Frottage, M/M, Nightmares, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Sexism, Prisoner of War, Sex workers, Torture, Violence, War violence, canon-typical abuse of physics, canon-typical misuse of mental conditions, card-playing, high noon, old west au, period typical racism, smut in the bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-03 21:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasenby_Heathcote/pseuds/Lasenby_Heathcote, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Bucky Barnes, POW survivor and Deputy Marshall, is chasing the Barton brothers after a train robbery gone wrong. Leaving behind the comforts of New York, where he no longer fits in, Bucky is seeking peace of mind from the events of the war. But when he hits his head and loses his memory, will he gain more than he thought possible?In the years after the Civil War, weapons manufacturer Tony Stark, attempts to start a new life in Iron Valley. Haunted by what he's done, Tony's attempting to drown his sorrows and forget his loneliness. When a handsome amnesiac stumbles onto his property, will Tony find the redemption he's looking for in the arms of the unnamed soldier?





	1. Title Card

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains some graphic depictions of torture and a bit of period medical adventures, as well as cruelty to animals, carelessness of human life, depictions of period appropriate homophobia, sexism, and racism. Some period-appropriate language may be offensive. This piece has casual mention of sex workers and implies that many of the characters engage in transactions with them, protagonists and antagonists alike.
> 
> Depictions of amnesia are not medically accurate and are used in a tropey fashion.
> 
> There are unreliable narrators! The story is told from limited 3rd person POV, with multiple POV characters. Thus, what Natasha knows about Tony and what's actually going on, may not mesh up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple of different betas, but this fic underwent several rewrites and I ran out of time for a final proofing. Spelling and factual errors entirely my own. Research cited when I remembered to save the links. Medical stuff drawn from memory and a vast love of historical romance novels. Probably somewhat inaccurate. ConCrit welcome, especially spelling or factual errors that are quick fixes.
> 
> Special thanks to: cryo_bucky for encouragement and cheers. 27dragons for not beating me with a horsewhip to get it finished. Lasenby_heathcote: my brilliant artist, who illustrated above and way beyond expectations. The crew from the Cap RBB slack, who continue to hang out and discuss other bangs/fics/head canons/kittens/and tentacles.  
>    
> In memory of my Grandfather, Sam, without whom this never would have been written. That box of paperback westerns and science fiction novels has since been lost, but my love for Zane Grey and HG Wells has never faded. Thank you. Miss you.


	2. Hang 'Em High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger appears on Stark's property and everything changes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new art by [MassiveSpaceWren](https://massivespacewren.tumblr.com) and [Cryo-Bucky](https://cryo-bucky.tumblr.com/)

 

 

_Oklahoma Territories, August 1872_

Poor horsemanship betrayed Bucky Barnes.

The Hydra gang he was tracking for the bounty -- set at five hundred dollars each, which was a ridiculously high reward for a couple of train robbers -- had been riding ten hours ahead of him. Bucky wasn’t looking to get into a gunfight out in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. That always meant having to drag corpses into town, if he was going to collect his bounties.

Barton and Rumlow -- along with several other men -- had robbed a train in Kentucky. It wasn’t their first train robbery -- they’d also hit at least a half-dozen stagecoaches bound for California -- but it was the first time people had died, and one of the dead was an important someone at that. So the governor of Kentucky, Jeffrey Mace, was badging the shit out of anyone who would try to track down those mealworms and bring them to justice. Alive was better, but dead was acceptable. Mace had a track record for putting bad men in prisons; he wasn’t looking to break it unless it was necessary.

Bucky was maintaining a good distance, moving in the late evenings and early mornings, sleeping during the day. Bucky hated trying to sleep at night; the darkness and the noise got to him and whenever he made the attempt, he suffered terrible dreams. He woke up terrified more often than not, and had one time nearly shot his mother in the darkness before he’d come to his senses. She and his sister had both agreed that Bucky needed to go on and leave the more civilized state of New York before he got himself into more trouble. Out west, where people still needed a gun hand, that would be better for his post-war temperament.

Bucky had no way of knowing that Rumlow’s horse had gone lame and he and Barton had been forced to ride double. It slowed them down considerably. Which meant Bucky came across them unaware, thinking they were far enough ahead that they wouldn't realize he was following.

The land wasn't gentle or rolling here, no matter what the poets and songwriters said, but jagged riverbeds and dropping hills covered in ragged dying brush and tangles of trees. One of those gully washouts provided adequate cover so that Barton got the drop on him. Rumlow was standing around the corner and in seconds, Bucky had him covered with his Colt.

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Bucky said. “You’re wanted under warrant in the state of Kentucky; I have orders to bring you in alive. It’s in your best interests to surrender, Rumlow.”

“Don't think we'll be doin’ that, lawman,” Barton said, pulling his bow back with one smooth motion. He was just above Bucky, on the ridge. High ground. _Fuck._ Bucky swore, jaw twitching. “Drop that steel. Ain't gonna ask you again.”

Bucky shifted in his saddle, calculating the odds, then turned his gun in his hand and let Rumlow take it. _Fuck_.

“Get off the horse,” Rumlow demanded, and Bucky complied. Pain exploded in his head as Rumlow clocked him with the butt of his own gun.

He came to when Barton threw a canteen of water in his face, hands bound behind his back, legs shackled with more rope. He craned his neck, realized that he was tied on a long line behind his own fucking horse. Howlie whickered nervously, tossing his head from side to side.

Rumlow held up the wanted poster, a sketch of Rumlow on the left, one of Barton on the right. “You won’t be collecting this, Billy Yank. ‘Fraid you won’t be collecting anything at all.” He patted Bucky roughly on the shoulder. “Ain’t personal.”

Barton drew his bow back with a steely slither and shot an arrow right into Howlie’s flank, making him run and dragging Bucky behind.

_Certainly feels personal._

***

_Iron Valley, manor house_

“Sir,” Jarvis said, getting Tony’s attention. Tony looked up from his work -- theoretically, the mine’s profits and losses from the last six months, but in truth, his hangover was bad enough that the numbers were mere blurs on the page -- to see his manservant in the doorway.

“What is it, J?”

Jarvis pressed his lips together in a tight line. He was very British and while the stiff upper lip was more of a cliche than an actual fact, Jarvis did not, in any manner, appreciate Tony’s wit. Particularly when it came to calling Jarvis anything other than Jarvis. Not even a mister was acceptable. British butler thing, Tony had long since decided.

“Your foreman reports a runaway horse near the far end of the runoff, sir,” Jarvis said.

“Fascinating,” Tony muttered, searching blindly across the desk for his bottle and glass. “What, pray, would an entire mine full of workers, including one vastly overpaid foreman, like me to do about this situation?”

“I believe, sir, that the men feel this is beyond the scope of their authority,” Jarvis said. “And you are rumored to have a certain… way with horseflesh.”

“A way with the _fillies_ is not the same as a way with a horse,” Tony pointed out, splashing a little bit of whiskey in his glass. It was only a little because, oddly enough, he seemed to be out. How could he be out of whiskey? In addition to owning the mine, renting most of the homes and farms in Iron Valley, and having a rather sizable inheritance, Tony was the owner of the local saloon. Part of his job included having adequate whiskey supplies for both the bar, and his own personal bar.

“Jarvis, why is my bottle empty?”

“I can only hope you spilled some, sir,” Jarvis said. “Otherwise, I’m afraid the answer is that you have consumed some bit more than is good for you. Either that, or Sheriff Rogers has made good on his threat to cut you off when you refuse to actually leave the manor for any length of time.”

Tony snorted. He wouldn’t put it past that rigid, uptight son-of-a-bitch Rogers to keep the girl from the saloon from bringing him his daily bottle. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen that red-haired girl. She was a new hire and the saloon girls sometimes kept him company -- a small deception on his part to preserve his privacy -- and he may as well find out if she was trustworthy.

“Well, if I can’t have another drink,” Tony declared, “might as well take Patriot down and see about this runaway horse that’s terrifying my miners, the poor, abused folk that they are. Have someone throw a saddle on him, would you, J?”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said.

Tony stopped paying attention as soon as there was something else in his sights. He opened his desk and pulled out his pistol case. He strapped on his belt. He didn’t expect a runaway horse to give him trouble, but it wouldn’t be the first time some idiot tried to take advantage to lure Tony out of the house and straight into a kidnapper’s plot to get rich. Tony’d been fending off opportunists since he was a boy, he didn’t intend to walk in unawares.

“Get me Parker,” Tony yelled as he passed by the mine. Parker was working the mines to work off some debt; his uncle had died a few months back in a shoot out -- one of Fury’s men, Flint Marko, had gotten drunk, accused Tony of cheating at cards (for the record, Tony _never_ cheated at cards, he never needed to) and shot at Tony five times. Marko had missed Tony with every shot. Ben Parker hadn't been so lucky.

Much to both Tony and the Sheriff's dismay, Marko hadn’t been found guilty of the murder of Ben Parker. How much of that had been Fury’s backer, Pierce, throwing money everywhere and how much of it had been the judge’s particular dislike of Tony, no one could tell. Marko had spent three weeks in Iron Valley’s uncomfortable jail and then released.

No one from Shield’s ranch had taken responsibility and Parker had lost his job as a cattle wrangler at Fury’s ranch in the process. (That had been, at least, for the best, since Peter Parker had a real hankering for revenge and having to face his uncle’s murderer on a regular basis might have driven the young man to do something remarkably stupid.)

Which left Tony to do something for the young man. Parker wasn’t willing to take what he thought of as charity, so Tony’d made space for him in the mines, which hadn’t been his first choice, but he really didn’t have other work at the moment.

Except now he did. Parker was an excellent wrangler and a dab hand with a lasso. Before his uncle’s murder, the other ranchers had called him the Spider Man, for his ability to lasso and tie down any beast, no matter how angry or twitchy. A skill that Tony could use now.

Parker was a skinny kid, too small for the mines, with earnest brown eyes and a petulant, stubborn mouth. He was covered in grime and probably his fingernails would never be the same. He’d been working the rock for almost a month. Hopefully he’d be more open to a different sort of job, now.

“C’mon,” Tony said, waiting while the kid leaped onto Tony’s second-best horse and fell into line behind him. “We have aquired a spooked horse down by the run-off. I'll need your help to bring it in.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stark,” Parker said. He tapped his lasso, the rope still neatly coiled.

When they arrived at the end of the runoff -- a deep pool at the base of the cliff and Tony would confess to leaping into the cold water below on some occasions -- the beast was tangled in a tree, a long flap of rope holding it fast to downed branches. The gelding’s left rear flank was coated in dried blood and flies. As Tony drew closer, he saw the snapped remains of an arrow sticking out from the beast’s hindquarters. The saddle was sideways, the reins tied onto the pommel at such a short length that the horse’s head was pulled down by the bridle.

Not a runaway, then, but a beast with an owner who either was, or had been, in trouble. The rope that tangled it into the brush was badly frayed and bloodstained near the broken end.

Tony frowned. “Get the beast back to the stables and fetch Doc Banner --”

“He don’t doctor horses,” Parker protested.

“He will if I throw enough silver at him,” Tony said, confidently.

“If you say so, Mr. Stark,” Parker said. He uncoiled his lasso. “What are you going to do?”

“Look around for this poor bastard’s rider,” Tony said.

***

Tony found the man, torn and bleeding and dying, in a gulch two back. The man was dressed almost entirely in black, gray now from dust and sticky from blood. His throat was abraded from rope, soaked red, hair a tangled mat of black curls. The shirt was torn open, skin an angry where it had been exposed to the sun, dotted with cuts and scrapes from being dragged across the prairie.

Tony wasn’t even sure the man was alive, how could a body take such abuse and survive, but the man was breathing, shallow and quick.

“Sorry,” Tony said to the unconscious man, “this isn’t going to be too comfortable, but there’s no other way for me to get you anyplace safe.” Tony spared a second’s grief for his shirt, but got his arms around the downed man and heaved him up onto Patriot’s broad back. Tony was stronger than he looked; when he’d been a young man, he’d taken an apprenticeship with a blacksmith and continued to enjoy metal-working when he had the time.

He bound the man’s hands to his ankles under the horse's stomach and then slowly led Patriot back to the manor. He was careful as he could be -- someone had tried very damn hard to murder this man, and may well yet have succeeded -- to not be seen bringing the wounded man into his home.

Jarvis met him, scandalized, as Jarvis was wont to be. He fussed over the state of sir’s shirt and trousers, but also turned down the blankets on the trundle bed on Tony’s room. The trundle was a tuck-away and used on rare occasions when Doc, Rogers, Wilson, and some of the other more respectable members of town felt the need for drinks and poker without rubbing elbows with the gamblers and miners who patronized Tony’s saloon in town (and the stakes were considerably higher, as they could afford it) and needed a place to sleep it off.

By stashing his mystery guest in his own chamber, he was guaranteed some degree of safety and secrecy. Also, Tony wasn’t sure he could carry the man up the stairs to the guest chambers on the second floor.

“Keep an eye on him, J,” Tony said. “Doc Banner will need to treat the horse first, otherwise people will suspect I've found the rider. This man’s not here, and you keep it secret. Get him broth and something to drink, in case he wakes and let him know we’re going to take care of him.”

Doc Banner had arrived by the time Tony got changed and back into the yard. Banner was a rumpled, serious man with graying hair and terrible fashion sense. His bloused-sleeve shirt was a brilliant, eye-offending shade of purple, ridiculously expensive and custom-ordered from New York and he wore a green and gold embroidered vest under his black coat. These he removed and slipped into a white apron before working with the injured horse.

“Poor thing,” Banner said, running his hands gentle and soothing down the beast’s hide. “I’ll take care of you, fella, it’s all right, everything will be okay.”

Expertly -- from years of being the town’s dentist -- Banner hooked the horse’s top lip, pulling its mouth open to administer a draught of laudanum. The beast grumbled and huffed, staggering around the paddock for a moment before drooping into a stupor.

“Waste of good laudanum,” Tony said, not really meaning it, as he walked over. Banner had a good, steady hand and the beast was worn down and pain-free. With a quick flick of a sharp knife, Bruce dug the arrowhead out of the horse’s flank, then whip-stitched the wound closed, just like he would if it had been a man. No one else really knew how gentle and concerned Banner was with animals, how he treated them better than he treated many of the rough-and-tumble men that staggered into his shop with bullet wounds and broken arms.

All most of them knew was Banner’s bad side, the rumor of the terrible temper that had resulted in a dozen deaths back in Virginia, where he was from. But few really knew the truth behind what had happened, but no one asked, either. Banner was happy enough to stitch up and tend to most of the men and women in Iron Valley, as long as no one asked questions.

Tony was the only one Banner had personal conversations with at all; they existed on the edge of the town’s tolerance, two men with dangerous secrets.

“Got a surprise for you, back in my bedroom,” Tony said, winking at Banner as he approached.

“For the last time, Stark,” Banner said, not looking away from his four-legged patient, “I am not sleeping with you.”

“Not that kind of surprise,” Tony said. Banner wasn’t the only person who knew Tony’s secret, but he was the only one who kept the silence for no other reason than friendship. “This horse had a rider, and he’s in even worse shape. But someone tried really hard to kill the man, and I want it kept quiet that he’s here until we know more.”

“Rogers isn’t going to be happy with you,” Banner pointed out.

“Since when is our good Sheriff ever happy with me?” Tony asked. “If nothing else, it’ll give him something new to harp on, and that’ll be a relief. I could almost sing along in harmony with his current list of complaints.”

“It’s your hide,” Banner said. “Get him cleaned up as best you can. I’ll be in when I’m done here.”

***

The soldier woke up as cold water was dripped onto his chest. Someone smoothed the water away with a damp rag, wrung it out, and started again. It felt nice, that one tiny place that someone was touching with gentle hands. The rest of the soldier felt like complete shit, like he’d been thrown off a cliff and rubbed all over with an adze.

He licked his lips with a tongue so dry that just that slight movement ached. The inside of his mouth was dessicated, tasting of dust and blood. “Water, please,” he managed, not even recognizing his own voice, dark and grated and hoarse.

The hands stopped their tender movements and a moment later, a horn cup was pressed to his mouth.

“Just a little,” an unknown man spoke. “You’ll just sick it up again if you rush.” Even in slow, easy swallows, the water was too soon gone and the soldier whimpered at the loss. “Let me get you cleaned up. The doctor will be in soon, and then I’ll get you some more to drink, okay?”

The soldier opened one eye, then cringed. There was too much light, it pierced his eyes and went straight to his brain in a bolt of agony.

“Shhh,” the voice said again, then moved. The brilliant red of the soldier’s eyelids faded to a deep gray. “Sorry about that, I wasn’t sure when you were going to wake. We’ll have to have more sunlight when the doc gets here. You’ve got enough holes in you to serve as a gold-pan.”

Slowly, the soldier tried his eyes again. His eyes itched and the lids were crusted with dirt and sleep and blood.

“I got you,” the voice said, again. The voice touched something deep inside the soldier, rich and with a trace of accent, soft like he’d taken time to polish all the corners off his words. “You’re safe, don’t you worry.”

The wet rag passed over the soldier’s face, cleaning the blood and grime from his skin. The soldier couldn’t help it, he turned his jaw into the stranger’s hand, nuzzling against those fingers like a cat.

“Where am I?” the soldier asked.

“Stark Manor,” the man said. “I’m Anthony Stark, this is my home. You can call me Tony. Your horse dragged you onto my land and I’m going to take care of you. What’s your name?”

The soldier wet his lips. It shouldn’t be a question, doesn’t one’s name just rise to the surface, spilling across the tongue, effortless.

“I… I don’t know,” the soldier said, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “I… don’t remember.”

 

New art by Cryo-Bucky and MassiveSpaceWren


	3. The Eagle and the Hawk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton gets into a card game... and some trouble...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains some sexism, positive depiction of sex workers, contemplation of murder, gambling, noncon kissing, striking of a woman

 

Clint tipped his cards closer to his chest. He didn’t trust that Xavier fella at all. Well, truth be told, Clint Barton didn’t trust much of anyone these days, and with good reason. But he particularly didn’t trust card players; he was living proof of why card players couldn’t be trusted and it took one to know one. He also didn’t trust young men with no hair.

“You’re bluffing,” Clint said, dropping a few coins into the center of the table.

Lehnsherr continued to dance a coin across his knuckles; Clint definitely didn’t trust that guy; he was exhibiting sleight-of-hand at the fucking table and who knew if he was stashing cards up his sleeve. Clint had sharp eyes, but he couldn’t watch five people at once. That was okay, though. Nat was sitting on his knee and Clint _did_ trust her. She wouldn’t let anyone cheat him.

“You gonna play, or just look pretty?” the bristly short guy -- Clint thought his name was Logan, but wasn’t certain -- snapped. He had a thick cigar that he clamped in his teeth, puffing noisome smoke in a billowy cloud around him. Clint slid a cigarillo out of his own case and let Nat lean over to light it for him. She was a saloon girl and her stays rode low over the roundness of her breasts, affording everyone a good look. Man that was distracted from cards by a pretty woman was a man who didn’t deserve to take home any money.

“I always look pretty,” said the young man with the pink-tinted glasses, Scott Summers, his name was. He had a girl on his knee, as well, who murmured something in his ear. “But as it happens, I agree with Jean. I fold.” He put his cards face down on the table and pushed back an inch or so. Jean straddled him, her high-slit skirts gave everyone a good look at her legs. Clint noticed, and Nat noticed him noticing, but it wasn’t the pretty expanse of smooth skin that caught Clint’s eye, but more the double-knife sheaths on each thigh that he could barely see the tips. That was a well-heeled woman and based on her nimble fingers as she played with Summers’s neckerchief, she was probably dangerous.

Kurt threw in his coin, not speaking. He didn’t talk much, Clint had noticed, and his eyes darted wildly from place to place as if he expected something to leap out at him at any second. Trapper, Clint decided. Those men spent a hell of a lot of time in Injun territory and weren’t none of them too attached to their brains anymore. He’d been steadily losing and steadily drinking the whole game. Clint looked forward to relieving the poor man of his burden of gold.

Xavier pondered his cards for a moment; the way the man’s eyes were almost perfectly still was uncanny. Nat read the tension in Clint’s thighs and she got to her feet, wandering over to the bar with a perfect swish of her hips. Clint watched her go with appreciation; she looked good both comin’ and goin’. She gave over one of Clint’s coins to the barman, a sharp-looking negro fella named Rhodes.

Rhodes poured two, just like always, with a quick nod to Nat. She turned to head back to the table when the man leaning against the bar grabbed her wrist.

“You been with him a while, sugar,” he said. “Time to share out.”

“Mr. Barton pays for me, exclusive,” Nat said. She tugged at her arm but the man’s hand just tightened. Clint sighed. It was really lookin’ like he was going to have to shoot someone today.

Not that Nat couldn’t handle herself, because she absolutely could. But whenever she beat the piss out of some idiot range rider, she always drew attention to herself, and drawing attention to herself was the exact opposite of layin’ low, which is what they were supposed to be doing.

Nat wasn’t actually a saloon girl at all, but the deception worked well. She’d come into town a week or so before Clint, got herself hired by the local procurer, which got her a room for a small percentage of her take. Clint rode in, took one look at the “new hire” and put her on permanent retainer. Which meant Clint had access to a nicer room than he would have if he’d just rented one at the saloon and Nat had access to the rest of the girls and the gossip without actually having to sell herself to any of the good folk of Iron Valley. As Clint’s brother would have said, it was a sweetheart of a deal.  

The plan, eventually, was to head all the way out to California, which was big enough, and hopefully far enough away, to keep lawmakers from Kentucky from following them.

But first, Clint was going to have to kick some ass, which annoyed him, since he was currently playing cards.

“Let the lady go,” Clint said, keeping his cards in his hand, because he wasn’t done with this hand yet, and it was a beaut.

“I see no lady here,” the man said, “just a Goddamn whore what don’t act like one.” He shoved Nat against the bar, spilling the whiskey and grabbed a handful of her hair to drag her into a kiss.

 _Well, now you’ve done it, pal,_ Clint thought.

Nat bit him, her teeth coming down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood, then shoved him back when his grip loosened in shock. “You ain’t paid for the merchandise,” she yelled. “That means you ain’t gonna touch me!”

Kurt looked around at the screaming, accidentally flashing his entire hand at the table. Yeah, kid shoulda folded.

Summers’s woman, Jean, was true to the saloon girl code that existed as far west as Clint had ever seen, and she was out of Summers’s lap and had her arm hooked around the man’s neck, dragging him backward and off of Nat. Good girl.

Still, this couldn’t be allowed to go on much longer.

The man turned, swinging with all his might and Jean went down in a heap with a sharp cry. Most of the men in the bar were on their feet now, and there was a lot of yelling.

Clint palmed his pistol, drawing and holding the piece neat at his hip; less dangerous that way, if he should miss (he wouldn’t miss, he never missed, but that was beside the point, because part of being a damn good sharpshooter wasn’t just not missing, it was not hitting shit you weren’t aimin’ to hit) the bullet wouldn’t travel at an angle to hurt someone else.

“Leave the women alone, you wretch,” Clint said, turning slightly that the man might see his piece and know that he was covered. He jerked his chin at Nat, who took her hand out of her blouse without a knife attached to it. Better. Careful now, girl. Gotta be so careful.

“No shooting!” the barman spoke up, crouched just below the edge of the bar, eyes wide with either fear or anger, hard to tell. Clint wouldn’t be surprised if there was a shotgun under the bar, too. That would be smart. “Strucker, don’t be stupid. You know Sheriff’s already watchin’ all of Fury’s men.”

Clint grinned, wide, dry. Daring. “Want to take it outside, you cross-eyed varmit. Bet you couldn’t hit the broad side of the building with a shotgun and directions.”

“Are you going to play cards or posture?” Lehnsherr asked, flipping another handful of coins into the pot.

Clint eyed him briefly, sidelong, keeping his gun trained on Strucker. “I call,” he said.

“Raise.”

God damn it. “Summers,” Clint said, “play my hand. This bastard hit a woman and I’m gonna shoot him in the street like a dog.”

“You’re gonna do a lot of pissin’ your pants, little man,” Strucker said. He was huge, but that didn’t matter. All men were small when looking down the barrel.

“Come on, outside, we can settle this,” Clint said.

Clint wasn’t a gunfighter -- that sort of thing left a man with a reputation, a thing that Clint Barton tried to avoid above everything else -- but he had precision aim and he was fast. Strucker was a drunken wastrel who got his kicks out of hitting women. Clint wasn’t worried. Well, not about the shootout, at least. He was more than a little worried about the pile of money on the poker table that should be his and what Scott Summers might do with it, but he trusted Nat to keep her eyes on the important things, and Strucker wasn’t one of ‘em.

There was a brief standoff at the batwing doors, as both of them were none too eager to put his back toward danger. Clint considered throwing the ass through the window, just to get past it, but thought that the bartender probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Clint tried hard not to inconvenience people who were just doing their jobs when he was pretty sure they had a gun.

The day was not bright, a scrim of clouds scuttled across the sky in the afternoon breeze. Good, good. Clint backed down the street slowly and townsfolk scurried away, rumor and truth spreading like fire in the prairie. Mothers rushed their kids off the street, having better sense than to stand out gawking, like some of the miners and rancheros were doing. He kept his hand a scant hair’s breadth away from his pistol, noting the other man had stowed his gun as well. Honorable sort, then. That was… medium good. Clint didn’t much care to be shot in the back by a treacherous snake, but at the same time, killin’ a man who was following the rules didn’t exactly leave a good taste in his mouth, either.

“Don’t have to end this way, Strucker,” Clint said. Might as well pretend to try for the peaceable solution, even though he’d been baiting the man inside. Once out on the streets, away from Nat’s closed expression and Jean’s spreading bruise, his blood had cooled. Damn, he didn’t want to kill again; didn’t matter how justified it was, death haunted his sleep an’ drove him to drink an’ take stupid risks in an effort to forget. He just wanted some god damn peace and maybe a card game once in a while. Was that too much to ask?

Strucker’s fingers twitched, his unblinking gaze narrow across the distance. “Share the girl, an’ I ain’t got no quarrel with you.”

“You already put yourself out of that business,” Clint said. “They’re not going to dip your wick if you’re hittin’ em. My advice, apologize, then get yourself a girl somewheres else.”

“Didn’t ask your advice,” Strucker said. “And she’ll go fast enough, once you’re dead.”

 _The hell she will_ , Clint thought, but didn’t say. He squinted, waiting, watching, for that moment when Strucker would go for his hand-canon.

And then, without warning, something big and blond and wearing a white goddamn hat stepped between him and Strucker.

***

Sheriff Rogers was huge. Huge and brave in a way that Clint had never seen before. He stood there, halfway between Strucker and Clint as if knowing for a fact that neither of them would shoot him out of the way.

Of course, Clint wasn’t going to. Shooting a goddamn law officer was decidedly not on the list of things to do while layin’ low.

Rogers jerked a chin, indicating that the two would-be duelists follow him, and there was just something about that piercing blue-eyed gaze that made Clint _want_ to obey his instructions. It was weird and makin’ him just a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was that he’d never seen a law officer so righteous before; that particular expression that looked so at home on his rugged face was more familiar on the faces of those who preached on Sundays than men who carried two guns and a badge and had seen more than their fair share of death and destruction.

“Look, fellas,” Rogers said, as they all huddled together in the shade of the general goods shop, “I don’t really mind if you want to go outside the town and cut each other to little ribbons, that’s all good and well. If you tell me about it beforehand, I’ll even make sure one or t’other of you has a coffin all ready and picked out. Town’ll cover the expense. But don’t do it in the streets, like dogs. That’s just messy and someone else’ll get hurt that you didn’t mean to. We already been dealing with that, haven’t we, Strucker? I’d sure hate to tell Fury that he needs to keep all his men on the ranch. But if I have to ban you all from town, I surely will do that. Now, is that a risk you’re prepared to take?”

“No, sir,” Strucker said, looking down that the dust curling around their boots.

“And I don’t know you, fella,” Rogers said.

“Clint Barton,” Clint murmured. “Just passin’ through. Don’t intend to stay much after the summer.”

“Gambler, from what I hear,” Rogers said, clapping an amiable hand on Clint’s shoulder. “I don’t have any problems with gamblers and travelers. Everyone is more than welcome in Iron Valley. But I don’t care for troublemakers.”

“Wouldn’t start trouble,” Clint said, “if Strucker weren’t one for hittin’ women.”

“That’s not a matter for an individual to take on,” Rogers said, easily enough. “We have laws and peace officers in this town for a reason. If the ladies want to make a complaint, they know where my office is. Now, I think the both of you should shake hands and part ways, before I have to take official notice of this little… happenstance.”

Clint clenched his jaw, but held out his hand. Strucker sneered, did the same. They touched palms for absolutely the least amount of time they could manage, then Strucker turned on his heel and stomped off. He unhitched a dull, bloodred mare from the post and threw himself onto the animal’s back, clicking his heels to her sides and trotting off. Little puffs of dustcloud rose in her wake.

Rogers pulled a square, yellow tin from his pocket. “Pastiglie?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Candy,” Rogers said. “I find it helps to clear the taste, after you have to deal with one of Fury’s men.”

Clint couldn’t help it; he laughed. Despite the inadvisability of the action, he found himself liking Sheriff Rogers. He took one of the proffered candies and let the sweet, lilac flavor melt over his tongue. Rogers took one, too and crunched it in his teeth.

“Shield men are trouble,” Rogers advised. “Not all of ‘em, but enough that I’m not kidding about banning them from town. If your lady friend wants to issue a complaint against Strucker, I’ll hear her out, but Fury’s got the judge on his side. There’s not much I can do, but if I have to make a ban, I’m gonna need more deputies to back it up.” He slanted a look in Clint’s direction.

“You can’t come at me with a badge and ‘spect me to wear it,” Clint protested, holding his hands up. That was trouble in a nice package that he… well, on the other hand, if he was _official_ that could give him room to maneuver. Nothin’ was going to happen today, leastways he hoped not. Wouldn’t put it past Strucker to make another run at the whores that night, but a quick word in Nat’s and the bartender’s ear should be able to keep a weather eye out.

“I’m not asking, not just yet,” Rogers said. “But I like a man that’ll stand up to a bully, and I’m sure looking at one now.”

“In a pinch, I’ll do for you,” Clint said, offering Rogers his hand. That shake was a bit more gratifying. Rogers had a solid hand, well-callused and his grip was steady.

“Welcome to Iron Valley, Mr. Barton,” Rogers said.

“Thank you kindly, Sheriff Rogers,” Clint returned.


	4. The Proud and the Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you get to know someone who doesn't know themselves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of torture, past child kidnapping and torture of a child. Proceed with caution.

 

_Iron Valley, Stark manor house_

The soldier lay on the bed, trying to capture anything, but his mind was a whirl of smoke. He could remember being dragged across the ground, hands bound and trying desperately to keep himself balanced on his back.

Rocks had bruised him, pummeled at him, as the horse ran and ran. Branches had torn at his clothes, his skin, catching and snagging.

Brilliant, shining pain in his head, when the beast had dragged them into a near-blind canyon, stamping and rearing, hooves coming down and the soldier couldn’t squirm or dodge, bound as he was, he had barely been able wriggle and roll out of the way, and then the horse had galloped off again, yanking him out the way they’d come in.

Finally, the horse had dragged them into a copse of trees and the soldier had managed to hook his body around a tree, shifted and had gotten the rope tangled badly enough that it wasn’t yanking on his throat anymore, choking him. The horse had struggled and screamed and the rope had worn through, scraping against the tree bark while the soldier lay, unmoving, on the ground, his life’s blood seeping into the dirt.

That was all, he couldn’t remember anything else.

There was nothing before that moment, fear and pain, and nothing after it until he’d been woken by a stranger washing his face and chest. _Tony._

Tony flipped the blankets back and moved down the soldier’s body with the wet cloth, cleaning. The rag was so stained with blood as to be near useless. The soldier braced himself, then heaved up onto his elbows. Pain shattered through his arm and he fell back, groaning.

“Careful there,” Tony said. “I think your arm’s broken.”

“If you think that, Stark,” said another man, coming into the room. The man wore a white apron splotched with blood and under was a purple shirt and black trousers. He carried a leather bag in one hand, “then you don’t need a doctor at all. We’ll all defer to your expert opinion.”

“Don’t need to be a doctor to notice when a man’s arm’s broken,” Tony pointed out. “Nor that he’s cut and banged up like someone’s been stampeding cattle over him, either. Fixing it, though, that’s what I pay you for.”

“Howdy,” the doctor said, sitting down at the side of the trundle-bed. “I’m Doctor Banner, you can call me Doc, or Bruce if you prefer. What’s your name?”

The soldier squeezed his eyes shut, as if blocking out the world would grant him clear sight to the contents of his mind. “I don’t know,” he said at last, frustrated. Anger broiled just under the surface, like a campfire whose coals hadn’t quite died down.

The doctor blinked at that. “Hit your head?”

“Guess so?”

The doc nodded. “Well, that happens, sometimes. Let’s see what your physical injuries are.”

The examination was thorough, embarrassing, and not painless. The soldier kept his eyes on the wall and tried not to move much. There was not hardly a part of him that wasn’t banged and bruised, cut and raw and abraded. Doc’s hands were as gentle as possible, but that didn’t keep the soldier from wincing with each prod and poke.

_Men stood around him; his hands were bound over his head and his toes barely reached the floor to hold him steady. Everything hurt. Blood dripped into his eyes. The men pushed him back and forth like he was a toy, punching and slapping at him. He was past screaming, had passed that point hours ago. The only sounds his raw and aching throat could make were low, desperate moans._

The soldier jerked away, hard, as Doc’s hands touched the abraded skin of his throat.

“I… remembered something,” he said, voice as rough as it had been then. “This ain’t the first time.”

“The first time what?” Tony moved to the foot of the bed, head tilted with concern.

“That I been hurt this bad,” the soldier said. “I dunno why, dunno. Men, in gray, they…” He couldn’t keep speaking, not with Tony looking at him that way.

“During the war?”

War? That was… yes. The soldier latched onto it. “Yeah, I was in the war,” he said. “I was a soldier.”

“Yankee, or Reb?”

The soldier flinched back from that question, that was a dangerous question, that was…

“It’s all right,” Tony said. “War’s over. No one’s going to blame you for the side you fought on. Or against. Not here, anyways.”

“107th New York, under Colonel Crane,” the soldier said, the words familiar, sickeningly so. He’d said them, hadn’t he? Over and over and over again until it was the only thing he could remember, the only thing… the…

He was gasping again, shuddering and --

The soldier leaned over the side of the trundle and Doc managed to shove a silver ewer under his head before he puked onto the floor. He heaved, again, and then lay back in the bed, moaning.

The doc ran fingers through the soldier’s hair, poking at the scalp and skull beneath. “He’s got a head wound, here. If it’s on top of old trauma, that’s what’s probably causing the brain mush. Hopefully, it’ll come back to you, in a few days, when you’re feeling better.”

“What if it doesn’t?” The soldier couldn’t help but ask the question, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“We’ll figure something out,” Tony promised. “The 107th wasn’t a big unit, we can probably get a copy of the enlistment records, maybe something will rattle around and sound familiar.”

The doc had him sit up to set his broken arm and inhaled sharply. The doc’s fingers came down on his shoulder and traced -- “Look at this, Tony.”

Tony moved around and the soldier turned his head to follow the man’s movements. Tony’s eyes widened in shock for just a second, then narrowed.

“What?”

“You’ve got a brand on your shoulder, soldier,” Doc said. The soldier squared his jaw; brands were for cowards, deserters, and thieves. That wasn’t what he felt like, he didn’t think he would desert or run, that wasn’t who he was, except how did he know, he couldn’t remember _anything_ about himself, not even his name.

“What’s it say?” the soldier asked, looking aside.

“C.” Tony reported. “You also look like someone whipped you within an inch of your life.”

Flogging had been outlawed in the union army within a year of the war’s start, but maybe… the soldier gritted his teeth. “ _I don’t remember_.”

Tony made a soft, sympathetic noise. “Maybe that’s for the best. Don’t worry at it, the west is a good place to start over.”

“How can I start over when I don’t know what sort of man I am at all?”

***

_New York, 1845_

The newly appointed Municipal Police department -- which had been strongly backed and funded by Howard Stark -- had mostly done its job. Mostly.

The fourteen-year-old heir to Stark Industries was returned to his parents, less than a week after his kidnapping.

The mostly part was the shape the boy was in when so returned. The old night watch’s system for rich children kidnapped was to encourage the parents to pay. About two-thirds of the children were returned safely for large sums of money. The children of some particularly wealthy families (the Starks included) were abducted several times over the course of their young lives, making some groups of criminals particularly wealthy in the process. What eventually led to the disbanding of the night watch groups and the founding of the Municipal Police was that an undercover investigation had revealed that some of those persons primarily responsible for the kidnappings were members of the night watch themselves, collecting both the ransom and the reward monies.

The Municipal Police, especially eager to prove themselves to the Starks, who’d backed and funded their offices, had told Maria and Howard not to pay the ransomers, that the police would find and recover the boy.

They found him, but the delay had greatly aggravated the kidnappers and they’d taken it out on Tony. By the time the police located him, Tony had a broken wrist, cracked ribs, two black eyes, a and badly healing burn on his chest. Howard had thrown his broken, beaten son into the care of the butler and busied himself in a great show of concern, by yelling at most of the police on the case, and by prosecuting the kidnappers to the fullest extent.

Tony didn’t know any of that until later. What he did know was that he’d never been so frightened in his whole life; not even that first time he’d been kidnapped when he was only four. That man -- who’d snatched him away from his nanny in the park -- hadn’t hurt him and had given him sweets for the next two days until his parents had forked over the ransom. He’d had a stomach ache that first time, and that was all.

But this time, when Howard hadn’t paid? The men told him his father didn’t care about him (Tony could have told them that himself, but they hadn’t asked. Howard didn’t care about the return of his skinny, disappointing son, he’d cared about the family image.) and that they were going to choke their thousand dollars out of him.

When the man’s big hands closed on Tony’s throat, he’d struggled, earned himself a beating. There’d never been so much pain in his entire life.

Across his chest, Tony bore a circular scar from that beating, where the leader of the gangs had branded him with a log-grabber. The overheated metal had sizzled his skin, smelled sweet, like roasted pork

By the time the police found him and returned him home, he was beyond wild. He didn’t want anyone to touch him, had struggled so hard against the doctor that he’d forced them to strap him to the bed -- which induced a catatonic state that had lasted several days in which he wouldn’t eat or drink, would barely move. He’d almost died before he started to come out of it. The entire time, his father never once set foot in the sickroom.

From that point on, Tony carried a gun with him everywhere he went. He’d shot the next person who tried to kidnap him, and fortunately, that had put an end to the cycle. Howard credited the police and the fact that those who’d beaten Tony had been hanged for their crimes. Howard had offered to take the boy to see the hanging, proposed it like it was a treat and had been furious when Tony had refused. The boy retreated to his bedroom to lock the door behind him and slid the chifferobe in place in front of the door to keep Howard from forcing Tony to accompany him.

Tony credited the gun.

***

_Iron Valley, Stark manor house_

Tony stared into the fire, the glass of scotch in his hand all but forgotten as he struggled not to think and failed.

“You need to be careful,” Doctor Banner had said, before he left the manor house. “You don’t know what sort of man you’re dealing with here.”

“A man who’s been through hell,” Tony had replied. “That’s all I need to know.”

Doctor Banner had sighed and clapped Tony on the shoulder. Over the years, Tony and Bruce had developed a wary sort of friendship that depended on each of them keeping the others’ secret. It made for a tense sort of silence between them, sometimes, but Tony trusted Bruce to do the right thing, and Bruce trusted Tony to make rash decisions. It worked out well for them, most of the time.

“Sir,” Jarvis said, coming into the room. “I found this, while attending to our guest’s belongings.”

Given that the man had arrived at the house with nothing more than his tattered clothing and a worn pair of boots, Tony was curious. “What’s this, then?”

Jarvis handed over a blood-stained square of thick paper, yellow and dog-ended at the corners. A State of Kentucky deputy marshal's license, signed by the governor some four months previous. Unfortunately, the card was so battered by the poor treatment of its possessor, the side-line where the sworn-in marshal would sign was torn away, the first two letters of the man’s name all that remained.

Might be Billy.

Tony wasn’t sure, the I was a little smudged, could have been a messy E. Didn’t matter. They had to call the man something until he remembered who he was, and if he never did, he’d need a name anyway. Billy it was, at least for now.

Tony reminded himself that he should probably discuss that with Billy, in the morning.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony said. “Could you have Parker come by in the morning, I want to talk to him about another special job.”

He’d send Parker up to Wichita, the nearest telegraph station. From there, Parker could send out a few inquiries, specifically to the 107th, and the governor of Kentucky. Someone had to know who his little lost marshal was.

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said. He was so neat and efficient about it that Tony relinquished his half-drunk glass of scotch before he realized that Jarvis meant to take it for cleaning, and by then it was too late to grab it back without looking like he was entirely too invested in the liquor. Which, of course, he was, and everyone knew it. He only missed being called the town drunk because he owned half the town and no one would dare.

Well, no one but the Sheriff. Tony didn’t even own the Rogers’ homestead, so there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Rogers was an ass of the highest standing, and the bitch part of it was that everyone in town liked him. Hell, Tony even liked him, when the man wasn’t breathing down his neck about the booze like the world’s most annoying sheepdog.

“You should get some rest, sir,” Jarvis prodded him. Tony nodded, but sleep was never further away than when he was reminded of that final kidnapping. There had been something wounded and broken in Billy’s eyes when the man had been told what his back looked like. The broken parts of Tony cried out to soothe him, but there was nothing he could do. So he was left to stare at the fire and try not to remember and to do it anyway.

Maybe it would be okay, at least there was another person in the room, another set of lungs breathing, someone whose mere presence might chase away the nightmares.

Probably not. But sometimes, another person could be enough.

***

The soldier woke, screaming in the darkness. His arm was bound to his chest, he couldn’t move it.

His heart raced in his chest. Air burned in his lungs.

He couldn’t see.

He groped blindly for his gun, couldn’t find it. Panic built inside his chest, squeezing at his heart. Where the _fuck_ was his gun?

“Woah, hold up there.” Someone spoke in the darkness and the soldier flinched away from the sound, struggling to find a way out, but he was hampered by blankets and the high rails on the trundle and…

Tony lit a twist of newspaper and used it to start the gas lamp. “It’s all right,” he said, soft, soothing. “It’s only me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Tony?”

“Yes,” Tony said. He sat the lamp down next to the trundle and dropped neatly to the floor, his lean, compact body graceful. “And I don’t know where your gun is. You didn’t have one when I found you. Do you need one, to sleep?” He reached around behind him -- Tony was shirtless, wearing only a thin pair of half-pants -- and drew a gun from the small of his back. “You can hold mine, for tonight, if it helps you sleep.”

The soldier swallowed hard, taking the gun; a simple three-shot, compact enough to fit inside a lady’s muff. “You sleep with this?”

“Every night for the last twenty-seven years,” Tony said.

“I can’t take this,” he said, turning it in his hand. “You don’t even know me.” _I don’t even know myself._ His hands weren’t shaking any longer, the light and the gun and -- _tell a truth and shame the devil_ \-- the man were comfort enough to drive the horrors away.

“That is true,” Tony said, “that I don’t know your history or your name. But I’ve seen your story written in your scars and I know what it’s like to wake up and need a gun. So you keep it, for tonight, and we’ll see about getting you one for your very own tomorrow.”

“Why are you doing this?” The soldier asked. “You don’t know me. I could hurt you.”

“You could, Billy-boy,” Tony said, “but I don’t think you will.”

“Is that --”

“Oh, right, I forgot. The name. We have to call you something,” Tony said. “And there was a marshal’s license in your pocket. Name’s tore off, ‘cept for two letters. B and I. Or maybe E? Your handwriting’s difficult to interpret. Figure we’ll go with Billy, until we figure something else out.”

“Billy,” the soldier said. “It don’t sound right, but could be, I guess. Billy what?”

“You’re here on my land,” Tony said, smirking, that sideways smile that made Billy’s stomach twist. “May as well call you a Stark.”

“Huh,” Billy said, leaning back in the trundle, feeling sleep’s tug at him. “Billy Stark. Sure, why not?”

“Goodnight, Billy,” Tony said. “I’ll dim the lamp some, but leave it here for you, so you don’t wake up in the dark again, yeah?”

“Night, Tony,” Billy said. He watched as the man turned and climbed into the tall bed across the floor, shuffled around a bit and pulled the blankets up to his shoulder. There was something solid and comforting in his shape, as well as something else, something that Billy thought he should recognize, but didn’t.

It was good to have a name again, at least that much.

Billy closed his eyes, hand still on the grip of the hold-out. He shoved the piece under his pillow and let sleep claim him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some interesting historical research I’ve picked up while poking about
> 
>  
> 
> [107th New York Volunteer Infantry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/107th_New_York_Volunteer_Infantry)  
> [History of New York City Police Department](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_New_York_City_Police_Department)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Tony is born 1831 (age 41)  
> Bucky is born 1840 (age 32)  
> Steve is born 1841 (age 31)


	5. And God Said to Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Clint and Natasha met, and Clint... getting himself in more trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a particularly graphic death (not a named character, but the description is detailed and kinda gross. Just skip over the stuff with Clint in the train)

__

 

_California-Memphis Goldball Train, 1871_

Clint did not like this, he did not like this at all.

How did he let Barney talk him into this shit? By being a fuckin’ stupid head, that’s how. Clint was a sucker for a sob story, that was the truth. And Barney was a bad, bad card player. Barney kept thinking he was as good as Clint (he wasn’t) and that his luck was about to turn (it wouldn’t) and that Clint would bail him out when everything went to shit (that much was, unfortunately, still true.)

The problem may have started when they was just young’uns, back in the day when Barney was still so much bigger than Clint and all it took to make Clint give up was a hard fist and being knocked to the ground for pissing off his older brother. That Clint, tiny and thin and terrified (the fact that Pop Barton knocked them both to the ground on a regular basis just meant that Clint was getting double the bruises) had learned at an early age that he better fucking let Barney win.

Whatever _it_ was. Foot races or checkers, cards or tree climbing, shooting contests or riddling, even drinking and wenching. Clint let Barney win, and Barney didn’t hit him as much. _Mostly_. Unfortunately, while Clint was actually skilled and smart and quick and better with women and could hold his liquor as an adult, Barney… thought he was a lot better than he was. And Barney was still bigger and stronger and still just as apt to knock his younger brother to the ground in a fit of rage. And Barney was just about Clint’s equal with either a gun or a bow, and so that wasn’t something that Clint wanted to push him into, either.

But it also meant that, because Clint had such a reputation as a gambler, Barney was convinced that _Barney_ could make a living playing cards. It wasn’t entirely Clint’s fault, he just hadn’t learned fast enough that he needed to keep his card-playing wins to himself, play a few hands, get a quick fifty or hundred out of the players and then bow the fuck out of the game, rather than raking everything in and leaving town under threat of bein’ shot as a cheat. He never cheated, never needed to. But people always thought so, after being handed their asses on a platter. And Clint wasn’t willing to shoot anyone because of it -- he knew he’d win that, too, and while there were certain parts of Clint’s soul that were already black as coal, he didn’t quite feel like being a murderer.

Not wanting to be a murderer meant that Clint hadn’t skinned his gun and shot his brother dead in the street. Which Clint totally should have done, if he’d had half a brain, because now he was in too deep to get out and shit was about to go down fast.

Barney owed. He owed more money than he could pay, which wasn’t shocking. And he owed more money than Clint could pay, which was a little surprising because usually in a card game, Barney was skint long before it started to eat large bites into Clint’s take. And Barney owed more money faster than Clint could earn it, especially in Kentucky, where his reputation was larger than life.

Professional gamblers had been known to throw down their cards in disgust and cash out as soon as Clint showed up in the saloon and eyed the card table. It was pathetic, and it was also not very profitable. Clint was going to have to leave Kentucky soon, if he wanted any serious cardplay. Which was too bad, because the available hooch in Kentucky was a lot better than some places he’d been.

But given that his own pile of folding paper was dwindling rapidly, Clint had listened when Barney talked about how broke he was, had agreed that something needed to be done before Barney’s backrollers decided to make an example of him. And Barney owed it to one bad, bad motherfucker. Alexander Pierce. The sort of man who could afford bounty hunters, could afford to send marshals after them for debts owed.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t robbed coaches before, Clint tried to tell himself. It wasn’t really that dangerous most of the time and Clint got to stand quite a ways away and shoot arrows. Hell, half the time if Barney was the slightest bit clever about the timing, the whole thing got passed off as an Injun attack. (People were so stupid; bow and arrows had been around for centuries in before whites had come to the Americas and the new Injuns that Clint knew were damn good shots with a rifle, but if there were arrows, people blamed the tribals. Whatever.)

This wasn’t that different from robbing a stagecoach. Hopefully.

Clint gazed around at the train car he was sitting in. Blending in. Waiting for the signal.

There were about thirty people on the car with him, and this wasn’t the only passenger car. Probably a hundred and twenty people, at least, were traveling west, and Barney had brought a small team, six additional men, not including the Barton brothers. Eight people were going to try to rob a gold-car with passengers.

There were kids on this train; Clint clenched his jaw and tried to ignore it. One elderly lady had a cat with kittens in a fucking basket. Who even did that?

Usually, when they were robbing coaches, Clint managed to make himself feel better by imagining that the people inside the coach were rich, that they wouldn’t miss the money, but a lot of the people in this train car weren’t terrible much better off than Clint, and at least two families were considerably less than -- the sort of people who’d packed all their belongings and were setting out west for a better life. The east was getting crowded, slums were taking over the cities, and opportunities didn’t exist the way they had before the War.

Some people headed south, to try to make something of the wasteland that had once been a collection of thriving states. Clint shuddered; he tried not to think about the War too much, or the things he’d done during it. Or of what was left behind; his parents had been whites, poor and tenant farmers, without slaves, but that didn’t matter to the generals and soldiers from the North who’d come in and burned the whole fucking town to the ground.

Clint didn’t much miss his Pop, but…

He almost missed the signal; Barney’s flaming arrow, spewing green smoke, crossed over the car, briefly visible from the windows. Ahead of them, Brock Rumlow would trigger the avalanche that would stop the train, and then the fun would start. Clint got to his feet and started making his way toward the front of the train. Between cars, he pulled his bandana up on his face and fingered the mother-of-pearl grip on his pistol. He hoped to fuck that there were no heroes on this train, because he did not want to shoot anyone, he really did not.

Being in a train wreck was more distracting and less helpful to robbing a train than Clint had anticipated.

There wasn’t that much clear line of track before they were on Rumlow’s deadfall. The engineers barely had time to brake -- throwing Clint onto his face in the middle of the aisle and he lost his gun under the seats. Passengers screamed and bags fell from their racks. More screams, as people had to deal with the sudden onslaught of falling objects and Clint was kicked a dozen times as he scrambled under the seats for his gun. One woman stomped painfully on his hand, a man kicked him in the back of the neck so hard he was seeing spots and hearing bells ring.

Clint managed to grab his pistol and crabbed toward the front of the train, his brain a scattered mess of swear words and pure terror. This was already such a not good plan, it had never been a good plan, and fuck fuck fuck, he was going to shoot his own brother just so this shit could never, ever happen again, except of course, he wasn’t, he never did, because when it came right down to where the bullet met the bone, Clint Barton was afraid of his brother the way some people were afraid of God, and you just didn’t mess with the position of God in your life.

Turned out that Clint didn’t have to shoot -- or even threaten -- the engineer. The man was already dead as a doornail by the time Clint made it to the engine, he’d been smashed into the throttle by the accident and the whole mechanism stuck out through his back, a pool of dark blood on the floor. Clint heaved and barely managed to grab his hat before he puked. There was something goddamn undignified about that death, ugly and brutal as it was, although for the sake of the dead man, Clint could only hope it was fast.

And then he’d come face-to-face with the realization that, unintended or not, that Barney and his gang (which included Clint) had murdered this man, sure as if they’d shot him, and he had to be sick again.

Clint checked his pistol; he didn’t want to be here; he wanted nothing more to be anywhere else in the world, but since he was here, he might as well do his fucking job.

Engine secured, he started back down the train until he came back to the first passenger car. He hitched his bandana back up and announced that this was a robbery, grabbing the first passenger he could get his hands on and holding the gun to her head. People were much less apt to be heroes or to panic if the gun was trained on one person, threatening one person. People backed into a corner were like rats, they’d fight and bite. But very few wanted to feel the blood on their own hands, by playing hero and getting someone else killed.

“You, sonny-jim,” Clint barked, “put your jacket on the floor. Everyone else, cash, coins, watches, jewelry, all of it. On the coat. Do it now, before I decide to see if this bitch bleeds red just like everyone else.”

That might have been a tactical error. The red-headed woman whose arm he had a hold of narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly looking dangerous as all fuck.

***

_Iron Man Saloon_

Natasha had never been a sound sleeper, not even when she was a child. As soon as a footstep fell on a place it shouldn’t have been, she was awake. Even if that footstep was a drunk wandering in the halls of the saloon or Rhodey downstairs with his sleeplessness -- the man got up at all hours of the morning to wash the glasses or scrub down the bar, or sometimes go for a walk in the moonlight. The War had made ghosts of them all, she thought.

This time, someone’s footsteps were really where they shouldn’t be -- on the wood floor of the balcony that wrapped all the way around the saloon. Sometimes, the girls hung out there, leaning provocatively over the railing to tempt in streeters. Frequently, customers would flee via that route -- more often than one might think, a wife or girl would come into the saloon looking for her man and said man would be booking it over the side of the building, trousers falling off their hips, boots tucked under one arm.

But it was late, damn late, and all the men had either fallen asleep or gone back to their own beds for the night. The girls were all resting, and most of them would sleep until past noon. Rhodey was rarely on the balcony, even on the rare occasions that he took up with one of the doves (Carol was his particular favorite) he was done and in his own room behind the kitchen before sleeping.

She turned over in the bed and saw the gleam in Clint’s eyes. Her lover was as quick and tense as she was, which is why neither of them were dead.

Clint made a quick gesture, pointing to her, then himself, then forked his fingers at his eyes. _You want to go look, or should I?_

Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. He was the one with his pretty face on the wanted posters and she was a saloon girl. If anyone should be screaming in the middle of the night, it should be her. She pointed at herself and then made a cuffing motion over his head. _Me, idiot._ It was really fine that they spoke the same language, having developed a sort of sixth sense for what the other one was thinking and could relay entire conversations in eyebrow raises and subtle gestures. It would have been invaluable if he’d actually cheated at cards, but since he didn’t, they’d put it to other uses.

She rolled out of the bed, silent as a cat, and slid forward on her hands and knees to the window. The moon was a sliver in the sky, but the stars glowed like miniature torches.

Whoever was on the roof was decidedly male, and based on the way they were looking in the windows rather than at the ground, Tash could safely assume they were up to no good. Natasha pulled back into the shadows as the man approached her window, flapping one hand in Clint’s direction. Smart man, he rolled off the bed and slid up against the wall, his hands light and quiet on his gun belt that lay on the floor just between the bed and the wall.

Natasha scurried back into the bed and lay down as quick as she could, leaving her eyes half-lidded.

The windows were smooth, well-oiled and virtually silent as they opened. It was one of the drawbacks of the Iron Man. The owner, local reprobate and rich man, Tony Stark, liked everything picture perfect, like they were back in New York City and he ran a high-end hotel there, instead of out in the West where everything had a shabby air of good-enough. Tony Stark was an enigma, but his high maintenance ways were going to get her in trouble real soon now, as the man slipped into her room.

She caught the slightest gleam of a knife in his hand and she did the one thing the intruder couldn’t possibly expect.

She moved. _Toward him._

Natasha had been a captive white, among the Crow tribe, which was their tradition when they killed parents (either on purpose or out of self-defense) and the Crow taught their women combat. Natasha had been, in General Ross’s words, _rescued_ at the age of sixteen and the General and his wife adopted her. It hadn’t gone well, and she’d left their home within a year, seeking a life where she could fit in. But she remembered her training. This bastard had no idea who he was tangling with.

She lunged up inside the reach of his arms, making it easier to grab and twist, making the knife harder to use. She grabbed his wrist, wrenched, sank her teeth into the dirty skin and he howled, dropping the knife. She caught a brief glance of a hand darting out from under the bed to grab the weapon.

So, they were going to play it that way, Natasha thought, then decided it was a good plan. The less the intruder, whoever he was, knew about their situation, the better. Natasha ducked under a ham-handed attempt to punch her, stepped back several paces, slow and tempted, leading the man through the room and toward the hall, never fleeing more than necessary to stay out of his range.

Footsteps, running in the hall behind her. The intruder didn’t notice, which was typical. People were so unobservant. It usually got them killed. The door handle jiggled. Natasha threw herself to one side as the door burst open and the intruder found himself facing the business end of Rhodey’s shotgun.

Pepper and Carol were behind him, each clutching pistols in one hand and lanterns in the other. Natasha was fervently grateful that both she and Clint were already on the floor, because she wouldn’t have trusted either of those girls to have the slightest idea of sense about shooting a gun. Of course, she felt that way about almost everyone. The safest place for a gun to be was in her hand and no others.

The man was quick-witted, Natasha would give him that. She caught a brief glance at his features, rough but appealing, a dark blonde stubble on his chin, familiar blue eyes, a thatch of brown hair that scattered across his forehead, a dusting of cinnamon freckles across a nose that was peeling with old sunburn.

She knew him.

Barney Barton.

Barton grabbed at the dress she had hanging off the back of the door, threw it at Rhodey and was out the window in a smash of woodframe and glass, faster to leave than enter. The shotgun blast was incredible loud in such close quarters, and Barton yelled once, before rolling off the porch, shattering the railing. Natasha was on her feet and bolting for the porch, but Barton was already gone, mounted on a splotched pinto, in the moonlight she couldn’t tell if the beast was brown spotted, or black.

“Shit, you okay, Nattie?”

Natasha gave into the urge to roll her eyes. What a stupid nickname. “I’m fine,” she said. “Cowboy lookin’ for a free roll, I reckon.” There were words for that, but they didn’t apply to saloon girls. Someone who gave it away for pay didn’t merit the word _rape_ , even though that would be what it was.

Rhodey nodded, sharp. “Reckon the Sheriff’ll want to talk to you.”

Natasha dropped her head a little, glaring. “Why? Like I know what he wanted?”

Rhodey’s mouth twitched. “Because that’s what Rogers does. Talks t’people who saw stuff. And Ton-- er, Mr. Stark’ll want to ask you questions, too. S’his place, and he cares about his employees. I’ll fix’at window tomorrow.”

Behind him, Pepper tittered behind her hand. Natasha had, thus far, managed to avoid a call to Stark’s bedroom, mostly by grace of him not being in town for a while. When he finally got around to issuing the invitation -- not that it was uncommon at all for a procurer to take free wares as part of the trade, although it was Nat’s experience that they had a preferred girl and Stark just seemed to rotate through the doves without really caring who -- she was going to have to think of something. Maybe she could get him really drunk; he drank a lot, according to just about everyone, and sometimes that did a number on a man’s carrot. Or, maybe it’d be time to move on. She laid with no man, unless it was her choice.

Natasha shrugged and gently closed the door in Rhodey’s face. When the footsteps faded away, Clint dragged himself out from under the bed.

“You know he is come to kill you,” Natasha said, putting her hand over Clint’s. Which was stupid, honestly. All of them were wanted by the law, the Barton brothers in more than one state. There was no point in Barney chasing Clint around; it wouldn’t get him away from the law, and if they stayed separate, there was less chance of being recognized. “We should leave.”

Clint shook his head. “Don’t feel like runnin’ from the law and runnin’ from my own brother at the same time.”

“Are you prepared to kill him?” Natasha knew that he wasn’t, the way Clint’s hand jerked under her own. “Or, do you mean for me to do it?” She certainly wouldn’t have a problem with it, but the act had a good chance of costing her Clint, who might never forgive it.

“I mean to have my life,” Clint said. “Enough money for some land, an’ have us a little farm somewhere out in the territories where no one will bother us. We haven’t got enough for that, not yet. And I ain’t gonna let Trickshot cheat me of it.”

Natasha smiled, patted his hand. “All right,” she said.


	6. Stranger on my Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark, rich idle millionaire... and secret mechanical engineer, has a bathhouse on his property. The stranger -- now called Billy Stark -- is in dire need of a bath. Tony... might be in dire need of something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains smut in the second section, after Tony and Bucky get in the bath together.

__

 

_Iron Valley, Stark Manor House_

“Morning, Billy,” Tony said, coming into the room with a tray. He had two steaming cups of coffee and plates with eggs, a mash of beans and bacon, and drop biscuits and a bowl of jam. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got runned down by a train,” Billy said. Everything he owned ached, stung, or throbbed. His arm was particularly painful where it was broken. The doc had put him in a weird device that yanked his arm straight a few handle-cranks at a time, then set the bone, cheerfully ignoring Billy’s scream, and while it was splinted up now, the damn thing still hurt like hell.

“Well, we’ll start with this, then.” And Tony held up a dark brown bottle with a paper label that was peeling off one side. He uncorked it, stuck his finger inside the narrow neck and offered it to Billy, who hesitated one moment, then caught the scent and licked Tony’s finger eagerly. Laudanum, miracle drug. The taste was revolting, but within moments, the pain -- well, it didn’t go away, exactly, but it suddenly seemed a lot less urgent and concerning.

Tony scraped a chair across the floor and sat next to the trundle. “Here,” he took a scoop of beans on the spoon and offered it to Billy.

“I c’n do it,” Billy said, irritated at being babied, but he was a southpaw and his good arm was currently bound to his chest. His right hand shook so much when he lifted it for the spoon that he heaved a great sigh. “Damn it.”

Tony didn’t say anything, just offered the spoon again, and choiceless, Billy allowed himself to be fed. He wasn’t hungry, not really, until a few mouthfuls hit his belly and suddenly the beast in there woke up, growling and snarling, and Tony could barely move fast enough to keep up with him. He chased the beans with a few sips of black coffee and then moved along to the eggs and finished it off with a sticky biscuit covered with plum and mulberry jam.

“Doc said you’ll need t’ get your strength back,” Tony said, “and I thought you might want a bath.”

God, that sounded good; Billy stank of sweat and blood, his skin was crusted with scabs and scrapes and embedded with dirt. Tony wiping some of the worst areas down had helped a bit, but to be clean? That sounded perfect. Billy groaned with longing and didn’t quite miss the dark flush that rode low on Tony’s throat at the noise.

The effort it took for Billy to sit up and throw his legs over the side of the trundle almost had him change his mind about the bath. Everything, _everything_ hurt. His head throbbed and the light stabbed at his eyes; when he closed his eyes, sparks of red and gold glittered against his eyelids. His neck was wrenched and turning his head set off bursts of pain.

Tony offered the bottle of laudanum after Billy paused at the edge of the bed for a long moment, and he nodded, sucking down the tip of Tony’s finger again. The brittle line of pain broke again, and he was able to get his right arm around Tony’s shoulder -- the man was quite a bit shorter than Billy, once they were standing up together, but sturdy and strong -- and limp in the direction Tony indicated.

“It’s Sunday,” he said, leading Billy out the back of the manor house and toward a small outbuilding across the lawn. “All my ‘hands get today off. Half of ‘em go into church. The other half are spendin’ most of the money I pay ‘em at my saloon. No one’ll see you, so this is a good opportunity. Otherwise it’d be a bath tin in my chambers.”

Billy shook his head, breathing too hard to make words, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Tony’s lawn was neat, well tended, and the grass was unmarred by stones or brush, like the fine yards back home. There was a the faintest taste of memory on his tongue, a brief flash of remembrance, a pale skinned, blonde boy who rolled a hoop over green grass, laughing. Billy closed his eyes against it, something squeezing pleasant, warm, and familiar in his chest, even if he couldn’t get a tighter hold on it. A whisper of a name, something… _jerk. Yeah, ya punk._

Tony’s bathhouse was the sort of thing that belonged only to the obscenely wealthy, or at least, not in this neck of the woods. Even back in New York, plumbing of this sophistication was limited to hotels for the most part. The inside of the building was polished and resined pine, gleaming in the lamplight. The bath itself was enormous, at least four feet to each side, rounded at the corners, and stairs led into the water on one side. The other three sides had benches, set deep.

Steam rose from the water’s surface and a simple iron-wrought pump brought fresh water in, while a system of drains would take it back out.

“Wha…” Billy gaped, gesturing around at the room.

“You like it?” Tony smiled, warm and pleased. “Designed and made it myself. The water’s heated from underneath, I’ll show you the works when you’re feeling better if you want. Bring the rest of it up from the runoff, pipes and pumps. We laid the groundwork for it, before we even built the manor. Running water doesn’t have to be a luxury just for the East.”

“Made?” Billy directed his attention to Tony’s slight frame.

“I like to tinker, in my spare time,” he said, holding out one well-callused hand. Against Tony’s wrist, there was the lingering mark of a healing burn. “Which I do have some of. And a ready supply of raw iron. So, the doc says you c’n get the splint wet, that won’t hurt anything except make it a little tighter, which is actually good. You can leave your nightrail on if you want, or I can help you undress. I’ll join you, of course, very European, by which I mean Rome and not England, which is almost as uptight as the Knickerbockers, back East.”

There was a spark… something. A low, grinding heat in Billy’s gut. That he remembered. An intensity and caution on Tony’s face, the deep gleam of something else almost entirely hidden by a frisson of fear.

How could he not remember his name, or where he was from, and yet he remembered… this. This heat and want and… Billy inhaled, his sore and aching body a limit and a liability. “I ain’t shy,” he said, and let Tony help him with the buttons of the sleepshirt. Tony stripped down, quick and easy. His body was lean, ropy muscle and a smattering of scars. A brand of old burn covered the middle of Tony’s chest and the way Tony looked when he noticed Billy noticing put the question out of reach.

Tony helped him down into the bath, the hot water almost brutal against his stinging, abraded skin. He hissed, hesitated. Tony took his time, leading him down slow, letting Billy adjust. Finally, they were in the water, seated on the benches, satin smooth under Billy’s bare legs, the water up to his chest. He leaned back against the padded rail around the edge of the bath, letting his eyes slip closed.

Billy jerked himself to a state of wakefulness again, when he felt a leg pressed against his own, a warm body -- how could Tony’s skin feel so hot, under the sultry wet of the bath? -- curved against his chest.

“Hey, soldier,” Tony said, when Billy opened his eyes. “You were fallin’ asleep. It would be really bad form for me to let you drown when I just saved your life.”

“Hard not to,” Billy said, his voice apologetic. “Feels nice.” He let his hand slide off the rail, rested it against Tony’s smooth back, fingers curling light against Tony’s shoulder in a casual, cautious invitation.

Tony pulled back a moment, not in shock or denial or any of those things, he just leaned back a little, to get a good look at Billy’s face. Apparently satisfied with what he saw there, Tony shifted back until he was resting against Billy’s side, reaching up casually to twine his fingers with Billy’s that drifted low over his shoulder.

***

It had been damned hard not to notice how beautiful the man was when he was a dirty, bloody mess with a tangle of matted hair and brutally chapped lips. Even then, Billy was a looker -- all dark gray eyes and good bone structure. He had a week’s worth of stubble that added to the rugged, masculine attractiveness, a cleft chin, and a smile that lit up the room better than any lantern.

Clean, his long hair hanging in wet locks across his forehead and down his neck, Billy was so perfect as to leave a pressured ache in Tony’s chest. Even marbled with bruises and scrapes, the man was glorious. The lamplight reflected off his muscular form, highlighting each line with a soft, golden glow.

Christ, it was going to be an effort to keep his secret, Tony knew. Bad enough he’d woke up twice now and faded back to sleep listening to the other man’s breathing, that Billy was looking at him with a combination of adoration and gratitude for the care that Tony was providing. And damn it, Bruce was right; Tony didn’t know _anything_ about the man, not enough to trust him, not at all.

Except Billy was leaning in, his teeth bit down into that plush lower lip and --

“You know, there’s this whole thing about how you almost died three days ago,” Tony said, not pulling back, not wanting to, but…

“No better time to remember things that are worth livin’ for,” Billy said, low and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, hesitating and there was an open invitation in his eyes, dark and wide, lined with thick lashes that brushed against his cheeks. A smattering of sun-freckles patterned across the bridge of his nose and Tony had the urge to taste every single one of them, count them like stars in the sky.

God, he was going to go to hell for this, but Tony Stark was not a man used to denying himself anything that he wanted, when there was a willing partner to step into the flames with him. When Billy closed the distance between them to so few inches that Tony could feel the man’s breath, Tony let go of any reservations and concerns. He slid forward that remaining gap and their lips touched.

Tony’s lips found Billy’s, and if Billy felt any hesitation, it wasn’t there in his kiss. He was soft and sweetly gentle, his mouth the barest brush against Tony’s, but Tony felt the tender friction all the way down to his toes.

Tony’s hands went up, helplessly, to twine around Billy’s neck, bring him down closer. The tenor of the kiss changed at Tony’s touch, from sweet and almost tentative to one of utter possession, of desire and need. Billy’s mouth claimed him hungrily, even as his hand splayed against Tony’s back, pulling them tightly together. Tony found himself sinking into it all, letting himself melt against Billy’s body, fingers twisting in that long, damp hair.

Such a bad idea, and yet, Tony was powerless to resist, wanted nothing more than to take everything that was being offered and demand more still. His lips parted of their own accord, letting Billy slip past and their tongues twined together, silken heat and heady desire. “Want you,” Billy said, his breath whispering across Tony’s cheek as he sought Tony’s ear and nipped at the sensitive shell. And Tony’s heart was as foolish as the rest of him, because it sang out with delight at the sounds. Billy returned to explore Tony’s mouth, tongue tracing the line of his lips, sliding inside in a deliberate and shockingly sweet seduction.

“I think,” Tony said, as well as he could think, which wasn’t very, “that you must be a dream.”

Billy growled, low and dark. “If I were a dream, I’d have both hands t’ touch you with,” he said, and proceeded to demonstrate just how much desire he could raise with only one, fingertips skating over Tony’s heated skin, then dipped under the water. Tony nearly lost his mind entirely when those fingers closed over his prick, sending jolts of sensation from his toes to the roof of his mouth.

He arched back and up, his hips rising to meet Billy’s hand, which twisted, circling and stroking, not quite slick, the water adding a heavy dose of friction that made him ache in the best possible way.

Tony felt like a boy again, sneaking a quick moment with one of the uppers, in an abandoned classroom, frantic to reach release before someone caught them. He straddled Billy’s hips, pressing them together, skin to skin. He captured Billy’s mouth, tasting, testing, mapping the territory of those full lips, that slick mouth and clever tongue.

Not enough. Tony dropped his hand between them, circling both their cocks, rubbing together, his fingers bumping into Billy’s tangling and teasing. The splinted arm was crushed between them, and Tony knew he should stop, he should… he couldn’t stop moving if his life depended on it. “Oh, god,” he murmured.

Billy’s gasp was equal in desire, his hips pumping up helplessly against Tony’s. Tony’s hand moved faster, and soon his every muscle was focused on not allowing himself to spill over until he was sure that Billy was close, that they would reach heaven together. Billy was nearly there, Tony could see it in those beautiful eyes, the way Billy was panting for air, the shivers and shudders that wracked him. His cheeks were flushed red, eyes unfocused, mouth open and Tony couldn’t help but marvel that this perfect man would want him, would want this.

Tony didn’t know how much longer he could hold out against that wicked hand against him, hot and sinful and knowing, and then Billy was crying out. Tony lost all control, hand pumping desperately. And then, as if in a perfectly choreographed display, they both tensed and arched at the same moment, breathing ragged, and hearts beating wildly until they simply slumped against each other, weary and spent and utterly blissful.

Billy grimaced and shifted, his expression pained.

“I’m an ass,” Tony said, looking down at Billy’s arm, his fingers purpling under the stiff splint. “Need more laudenum?”

“Prefer not,” Billy said. “Jus’ want to lay down for a bit.”

Tony nodded. He reached down and pulled the drain for the bath; he usually emptied and refilled the pool once every fortnight or so, he’d just do it a bit early. Jarvis wouldn’t fret, the man got frantic about blood and dirt, so Billy’s using the bath would be an excuse to clean it.

He squelched an unpleasant surge of guilt at how weak Billy was after the bath and their exertions, letting Tony dry him off and dress him without protest. They staggered against each other back to the manor house and Billy was so dizzy by that point that Tony tumbled the man into his own bed.

“Stay,” Billy said, when Tony shifted to leave the room. “I… feel like I’mma float away. You stay. Keep me here.”

There was nothing to say to that, and it wasn’t like it was a hardship. Jarvis would be the only person who would dare enter Tony’s bedroom without an invitation and he already knew everything there was to know about his master.

Tony nodded. “Yeah, all right, soldier, I’ll do that. You rest up, gotta get your strength back.”

Billy rolled over with no small amount of effort. “C’n think of some good uses for that strength,” and the smile he gave Tony stirred his interest again, caused his stomach to flip over with anticipation.

 _Holy hell,_ he thought, _I am in trouble._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jerk was used to describe someone who “jerked” a soda or beer tap (1883), first recorded use as “a useless person” was noted in 1935, but often slang didn’t get written into the language for several years after it was in common use. I’m aware that this is an anachronistic use of the word, but… yeah.


	7. Many Rivers to Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has a chat with his brother. And Natasha thinks some on her past...

__

 

_Shield Ranch, just outside Iron Valley_

Clint didn’t give himself much credit for being a tracker; Barney Barnes wasn’t hard to find if you knew anything about the man, and Clint knew more than he wanted to about his stupid brother and his idiotic habits.

Nat had chatted up some of the other sporting girls -- with the two recent incidents,  the attempted break-in and the near-shoot-out after the card game -- everyone was bursting to fill the new girl in on the juicy details. Which gave Clint the direction of Fury’s ranch. Bad sorts were known to assemble there, like a pack of carrion birds circling a corpse. Men who didn’t care ‘bout nothin’ cept money and violence.

Exactly the sort of people which would be willing to put up his brother and whatever remnants of their little robbing gang might remain. Clint didn’t know; maybe the rest of them survived, maybe they didn’t. He was all for forgetting about the train robbery as soon as possible, but that didn’t look like anything that was like to happen.

Clint saddled up his gelding, Lucky, and headed out of town toward the ranch where Fury and his ‘hands were to be found. The road was dusty and ugly. Everything was ugly out in the Midwest, Clint thought, squinting over the land. Huge herds of cattle threw a lot of dirt and it didn’t take long before he was peering across the distance at a low-riding tan smudge on the horizon. Easier to follow the road, but Clint wasn’t sure what his reception was going to be at the hands of his brother; rather sneak up on him and talk alone than run afoul a cluster of Barney’s outlaw band, looking for some trumped up, ridiculous revenge.

Clint knew better than to think his brother wouldn’t hurt him. Barney never let blood stop him before and he wasn’t apt to get a sudden need to be right with God. There was a bit of fertile ground off the east side of the ranch, around a little run-off stream. Clint pulled the bit and clipped a rope easily to a tree branch. Lucky could have a drink and eat a little grass in the circle allotted him, and if worse came to worst, he could pull free and run back to the saloon. The worst part being that Clint never came back to him, and it pissed Clint off that he was considering that as something that might happen.

Except Clint wasn’t stupid, and it was not even unlikely.

Time to find his brother.

The ranch was a nightmare of bad management and lazy cowhands. The herds were half-clustered on land that had been grazed out, and some of the beasts were barely glue on the hoof. A few ranch hands rode lazy circles around the herds, but not a one noticed Clint as he moved between the restless cattle, grimacing at the sight of the poor beasts and the indications of illness in the animals.

He’d originally thought of getting the animals to stampede; that kind of commotion would let him find and pick his brother out without attracting undue attention, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to torture these animals anymore than they already had been.

Dozens of them had mark-over branding, a sure sign that some of these ranch hands were more likely cattle thieves than anything else.

Yeah, this didn’t look good.

He finally spotted Barney, passing a flask and what smelled like opium cigars around with a patch of banditos, including Barney’s old pal, Rumlow. _Fuck_. Clint did not like that guy; Rumlow was needlessly cruel and bloodthirsty. Clint settled in to watch, taking shelter in the dark shadow of a scrub patch, his sand-colored pants and shirt a good choice. Barney was in all black, because of course he was, trying for the dark and dangerous look. Probably also hot as hell, because he was an idiot.

On the plus side, that meant he’d be drinking hard and fuddle-headed by the time he -- yeah, there he went, staggering off into the trees to take a piss. Clint was up and moving as soon as he guessed what direction his brother was headed in, sliding around the ranch house and barracks with quick, light feet, dodging anyone who might see him.

Even boozed up and stupid, Barney was no slouch. Clint had barely stepped into range before Baney’s gun was out, trained direct on Clint’s head. “Don’t you move,” Barney said, yanking his pants closed with his other hand.

“Hey, brother,” Clint said, not moving his hands. He was less than a breath away from the grip on his pistol, and Barney knew he was fast. Clint let his eyes flicker around the scene; if he had to, there was a good patch of scrub brush to one side that wouldn’t shield him, but might mess up the aim, he could shoot just as well from the ground as from a standing position. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Yeah,” Barney said, sneering. “You niver do, coward. How’d Pop raise such a yellow-dog as you, I’ve no reckoning.”

“You could just sum up your life with you got no reckoning,” Clint said. “What do you want? I know it was me you were lookin’ for, the other night.”

“Need you for a job,” Barney said, all shifty eyes and twitchy fingers. Because of course, Barney was still thinking that there was anything that Clint wanted to do for him.

Clint scowled. “I’m out, Barney,” he said. “Deal with your own fucking problems. Leave me out. Just want to --”

“Look, little brother,” Barney said, and he actually held his arms out to the side, dropped his pistol back in the holster. “This is right up your alley, you can do this, an’ you don’t have to get involved with anything that your delicate little hands can’t handle.”

“Barney,” Clint started.

“Jus’ listen,” Barney said, his voice soothing and smooth, the way it always was just before Barney talked him into something extraordinarily stupid. “We just need you to keep this guy busy for a while.”

“What guy?”

“Tony Stark,” Barney said. “Look, I got word here that the guy is really, really loaded. Safe fulla gold an’ everything. Th’ guy I owe, he wants somethin’ from Stark, a deed or somethin’ and that should be in the safe, too. He says ‘f I get the deed, he’ll let that be good, for what I owe’m.”

“You’re going to rob the man that owns half the town? Are you stupid?” Of course Barney was stupid. That was the whole problem, right there, wasn’t it?

Barney’s hand twitched near his gun again and Clint thought about just shooting his brother and getting it out of the way, because eventually, no matter what he wanted, and no matter how hard it would be, eventually it was going to come down to that, the Barton brothers shooting each other in the streets like dogs.

But not today.

“Naw,” Barney said. “We jus’ want you to distract ‘im. He’s been holed up in his house f’r days now. He’s a card-player, like you. Get ‘im to come into town an’ play cards with you. Won’t matter if you lose ‘r not, but hell, go ahead an’ win like you allus do. Me an’ my boys’ll take the safe while he’s distracted, leave town. No one hurt or nothin’.”

That was… a remarkably peaceable plan for a change. Surely Barney could not have come up with it.

“And if I do this for you?”

“I’ll forget all about th’ train. Forget all them times you left me in th’ lurch,” Barney swore, sincere as he knew how. And how much Clint wanted to believe him. “F’r that matter, I’ll plum forget I had a brother at all. Leave ya alone, s’much as you want.”

Oh, that was never going to happen, never, ever, and Clint wanted it so bad he started squirming inside his brain, wanting to believe. Needing to believe it. Barney always lied, almost always, least ways, but maybe, just this once, he could do what he said he’d do. An’ this would be an easy con, he didn’t even have to play the con at all, just do what he did, which was play cards. Well.

“A’ight,” Clint said, finally. “Do it your way. I’ll see if I can talk him out for you. And then, never again. Nothing. Ever again.”

“I swear.”

 _So do I,_ Clint thought. _Every damn day._

But maybe. Just this once.

***

_Castle Thunder prison, Richmond, Virginia, 1863_

Natasha hid a grimace behind her fan. She was using the sandalwood to avoid the stench, but it crept around the edges of her fan despite everything. The only good thing she could say about Castle Thunder was that it wasn’t Andersonville. Andersonville had been a crawling nightmare that she rather had wished to burn to the ground. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the job she was paid to do.

Under the tyrannical fist of former prisoner of war, Captain Alexander Pierce, the former tobacco warehouse was used to imprison spies and officers of the union army. Pierce, who’d suffered horribly in Union hands, had, maybe, once been a good man. No longer. The prison was a torture chamber, each officer or spy was slowly starved, beaten, and sometimes hanged when the Confederate army could get reliable accounts of their own officers executed in the north.

General Ross, who’d adopted her after her rescue from the Crow had assigned her for messenger duty around the south, He’d thought a few months of hardship would convince Natasha that she’d prefer the life of a pampered southern belle pet and come home. She had no intention of going home again, and she aimed to do that job.

She knew how to fight and how to shoot, which served her well for soldiers on both sides of the war who thought she was a ripe plum for the picking. She’d not yet killed a man by the time she turned eighteen, but she’d shot a fair number of them for their arrogance. She’d delivered messages throughout the confederacy, and she’d taken a fair number of spying jobs as well Probably not entirely unknown to Ross, but just in case, she’d kept those to herself on the few occasions that she was near enough to home to stop by for a meal, a real bed to sleep in, and money.

She’d come to deliver the prisoner exchange warrants; they named specific men or ranks who were to be released, taken to the trains, and shipped home, in exchange for the listed men that were captive in the north and probably suffering just as much, if not more. The winter would be mild in the south, but north the Mason-Dixon, the temperatures were much, much lower, the snowfall lush and heavy, and the men were in tents, barely dressed, underfed and sick.

Pierce scrolled down the list, humming under his breath. His office overlooked the yard, and Natasha couldn’t help but stare down at the poor wretches, some of whom would be going home, soon enough. It didn’t matter to her that they were northern creatures, or even that she was, herself, in the pay of southerners. They were all white men as far as she was concerned. Arrogant, cruel, stupid, and petty. She wasn’t one of them. And yet, their suffering moved her, when she thought she had no concerns, whatsoever, for the bastards.

Pierce picked up a charcoal and ran a line through several names. “These men are dead,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Are they, now?” Natasha replied, fluttering her fan. God, the stench was overwhelming. She wondered if Pierce had a wife and if she made him bathe the stink of dead and dying men off his skin before he was allowed in the house.

“Well, most of ‘em,” Pierce said, that merry blue twinkle in his eyes out of place with the news he was giving her. “One of ‘em’s dyin’ but he’s so close to breaking, I don’t want to give him over. I know he’s got information we need.”

“Is that so?” Natasha said. “And which one of our boys do you think should die in his place?”

“I’d heard you were a practical sort, Miss Ross,” Pierce said. “Not one given to overt sentimentality. What’s one soldier, more or less?” There was no point in correcting the name, everyone called her Miss Ross and not Miss Romanoff, which was her white man’s name. And no one called her Black Widow since she left the Crow nation.

Natasha worked her fan again, putting all her efforts into bending her mouth into a smile. “Well, you know that I don’t have a particular fancy for any of the young men, but shouldn’t we be honoring our word?”

“The man won’t last two days to get him on a train,” Pierce said. “He may as well serve a purpose and give us the information we want.”

Natasha shrugged. It wasn’t her concern, she decided. Whatever Pierce decided, he was a man with whom she had little or no influence. He finished the paperwork and handed the signed documents to her. She tucked them into her messenger bag. “I’ll walk you out, Miss Ross,” he said.

He took her the shorter route to the prison’s walls, but different from the direction she’d come in. He was showing her something, and she took note of the heavily barred rooms, each with a tiny printed card nailed to the outside.

_Sergeant James Barnes, 107th New York_

Below the card was tacked the soldier’s insignia, three downward v stripes. The dead man who wasn’t dead yet.

“May I?” Natasha indicated the small window of the prisoner’s door. “Just to feel calm in m’ mind that the man won’t live, that releasing him won’t be a blessing.”

Pierce opened the slot for her and Natasha bounced up on her toes to see.

The man was impossibly thin, his arms chained above his head. He was hanging by his bonds in the middle of the room, bare-chested, his pants hanging in tatters around his hips. He had cuts and burns on him, and from his mouth, she could hear only barely, as he reported to the air; to non-existent tormentors, his name, his rank, his unit. Nothing else, but he murmured these words over and over again.

He did not look like a man on the verge of breaking. He looked like a man broken, but who’d broken in such a manner than his secrets would die with him. He didn’t look up when the window opened, didn’t so much as twitch. Death was a spectre, lurking in the shadows of this terrible place, but death’s sweet release was still so far away.

She nodded. Pierce was probably right; the prison trains were not an ease; the men would have several terrible days headed north, and several would die on the way.

“I shall report the loss, Captain,” she said, bowing her head.

At the sound of her voice, the man looked up. He didn’t say anything, but she was snared by the crystal blue slate of his eyes, sharp and focused, across the room, even as he was in so much pain. She couldn’t help him. She could only report him dead, let this terrible thing happen until he was dead.

And yet, his eyes wouldn’t let her go, the strength of character in his stare shamed her. She’d have sold out the instant someone touched her; she had no loyalty to anything but money and the Crow tribe that were all dead now. She had nothing, except herself. This man… this man had a reason to live, whatever it was, and he was clinging to it with both hands. She couldn’t help him, but… she could give him ease. It wouldn’t be hard; the men who guarded the prison were looking for other men, trying to get out. Not one woman trying to get in. She couldn’t rescue him, but she could, perhaps, give him death.

She jerked her chin down once, slow, and watched as his eyes closed in acceptance. In gratitude.

In the end, rescuing the poor man was easier than she would have thought; there was a prison riot that night when the Captain read out the names of the men who were to be exchanged and some of the unlucky sons of bitches who weren’t on the list had taken to murdering their compatriots in a desperate effort to take their place.

The monsters within were not only the guards.

Natasha slipped into the room, having learned to pick white men’s locks when she was only a girl. The man was so light, so starved, that she could practically carry him.

“I’m going to kill you,” she said, soft and slow, “but if you want, you can die outside the walls.”

He nodded, barely able to talk, and he leaned heavily on her. “Yeah.”

She checked the hallway, still clear as the sounds of rioting went on and on behind them. The halls were empty and she walked out with her precious burden as easily as she’d come in earlier in the day with her list of names. She stopped to lock the door behind her.

She’d meant to kill him. To ease his pain. And instead, she found herself taking him back to her hideout, an abandoned tenant farmer’s shack, and healing him up, feeding him, letting him rest. Letting him talk to her. Telling him about her life. He was the first decent white man she’d ever met.  

Which was good; she’d made herself a criminal to the white men by freeing him.

***

_Stark Manor, Iron Valley_

Natasha stared in the window. She wasn’t stupid, she’d been with Clint Barton for several months now, and she knew whenever his brother got involved, trouble was going to go down. She’d almost killed him once, when they first met. The train robbery gone wrong. He’d tried to take her hostage. But she was already wanted by the white man’s law; having a second outlaw to back her play had been a calculated risk. It had paid off. Mostly. Except Clint could not seem to help getting himself into trouble, especially if his brother was involved. The man was a dowsing rod for trouble. Merely playing cards with the owner or not, she wanted to see exactly how much trouble was going to roll downhill this time.

The manor house was nice, well-defensible if there were enough men with guns; she didn’t see any indication that Stark had guards, although the miners were not so far away, and there were an awful lot of them. If it came down to a fight fight, she’d put the odds on the house.

She watched the house for a while; for such a large building, there didn’t seem to be very many occupants. Natasha was just getting ready to call it quits when the back door opened and a man walked out. He was slow moving, as if he’d been recently hurt, and his arm was bound in a sling over his chest. It wasn’t Stark -- too tall -- and the man’s butler was ancient. This was someone else. Someone that no one knew about; she’d have heard about it at the Saloon if there were gossip about Stark keeping an injured guest.

The man staggered out to the outhouse and let the door slip closed behind him. She took the opportunity to move nearer to the house.

When he came out again, Natasha almost fell from her perch in shock. She knew that man.

It was James Barnes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m moving out the original Captain George Alexander and putting Pierce in his place, but [Castle Thunder](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castle_Thunder_\(prison\)) was a legit civil war prison camp and the conditions there were less crowded than some of the other camps, as it was specifically for officers and spies, but deaths across all civil war prison camps were about 10% of the total deaths in the war. (with some estimates higher, because Andersonville and Belle Island in particular are suspected of having a much higher rate of prisoner deaths than officially reported)


	8. The Cowboy Millionaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets invited to a card game, Loki does some plotting, and Steve does some investigating...

__

  

_Rogers Homestead, Iron Valley_

Steve Rogers greeted the dawn the way he always did. Coffee in a tin cup, looking out over the land. Some of it was his land, and he vaguely remembered a time when that would have pleased him.

The coffee was bitter, but he liked it that way.

Peggy came out onto the porch with him, a thin porcelain cup holding her steaming tea. Of the full set of cups and saucers and the teapot that had been her grandmother’s, she’d managed to get all the way across the country with only half the set intact, but that didn’t keep her from going through the routine every morning.

Peggy’s dark hair was tied into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and she had a smart hat on; his wife might be deep in the middle of an uncivilized land, but she had fashion plates imported from San Francisco and she always looked twelve times prettier than any of the other women in town. She was not, however, a morning person and the look she gave her husband over the steaming rim of her tea cup could have cut glass.

“Bad night?”

“No worse’n normal,” Steve said, and that was the truth. For years, he’d been haunted by the war. He no longer expected it to get better. He revisited the battlefields in his sleep, he saw the dead, comforted the living. Looked for Bucky.

_The grounds at Gettysburg were sticky with blood. The dead and the dying lay, scattered like a child’s broken toys, forgotten. The doc had threatened his leg, said he was going to cut it off, rather than seek the bullet, and Steve had scrambled away, agony in every step, as soon as the man’s back was turned. He’d grabbed one of the men from his unit, a bottle of cheap beer, and they’d gone to the woods. Under Steve’s direction, pained gasps spitting between his teeth, he’d talked Dugan into digging the bullet out. If he got the gangrene, he’d let the doc take his leg later, but damned if he was going to give up without even trying._

_“We lost the Sarge,” Dugan had reported, after Steve was slouched back against the tree, the dirty bandage already bleeding through. He’d saved that news for when he knew there was no way that Steve would be able to get to his feet and start looking._

_“You bastard,” Steve muttered. He struggled to rise, but the beer and the pain kept him down._

_“I know what he means t’you, Captain,” Dugan said._

_“You don’t know anything,” Steve managed, trying to get up again. He’d search every body, every man, until he knew. Until he was sure._

_“He’s gone, Captain,” Dugan said. “Don’t make th’ men lose their captain, too.”_

No worse than normal. Steve took another sip of his coffee.

“What new disasters have taken place in Iron Valley, Captain Rogers, that you look as though you must shoulder the weight of the world?” His wife leaned against the pillar that held their porch roof up, not a posture she would be seen dead in, if she were in town. Very proper, his wife.

“It’s Sheriff, now, Mrs. Rogers,” Steve said, smiling. She’d met him as a Captain, smart in his dashing uniform and stupid with the idea that they’d ride south and Johnny Reb would see them coming and flee. No one expected the horror of war to last more than a few sunshine battles. But it had dragged on, and Steve’s uniform had gotten bloody and torn, and Peggy at home had sewn him new ones, for those few weeks that he could get north enough to collect them, and one one monumental occasion -- he’d proposed to her that very night because at least if she were his wife, she’d promise God to obey him (not that he expected she would) -- she’d ridden down and delivered them herself.

That had been just after Gettysburg, and while his heart still rose into his throat thinking of just how dangerous what she’d done had been, he couldn’t blame her. The death toll at Gettysburg had been horrific, the casualty lists had been pages and pages, and not even accurate, at that. Peggy had to come, see for herself.

Funny, in all the dreams he had about that battlefield, he never feared for his Peggy’s life at Gettysburg. Maybe even the rebels had known what folly it would have been to attempt to attack Peggy Carter.

Steve drained his coffee, the bottom swallow tasting of tin and oil. “Someone raided the Iron Man this week,” he said. “Gotta figure that out. That new woman, Romanov, there’s something about her that don’t sit right with me. She knew more’n she was saying.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time,” Peggy said. She took his cup, knowing her husband well enough to know if Steve was left to his own devices, the cup would still be on the rail the next morning. “You have a soft spot when it comes to a pretty face.”

Steve snorted. “Hasn’t been a pretty face that turned my head since you did. But she’s a sly one. She says nothing that she’s not thought about four times already. I’ll figure it out.”

“I have no doubts on that score, husband,” Peggy said.

“In the meanwhile,” Steve said, “I may head out to Shield. Get the feel, if someone new’s shown up. Bad elements gather in groups.”

“Well, take Wilson with you,” Peggy advised. “And perhaps you should deputize someone else, for backup.”

Steve tipped his hat. “I’ll think about it.” And he would. Think about it. It was unlikely that he’d actually do something about it. Steve missed Bucky, wished for a moment that Bucky could be around, could be deputized.

Steve kissed his wife and tasted the sweet of her tea on her mouth. Just like he liked it.

***

_Loki’s Apothecary, Iron Valley_

Loki was careful, pouring the measured herbs into the packet with practiced ease. Goldenseal and powdered boar’s intestine, the medicines were very powerful, and taking too much could result in a dead patient. He consulted Doctor Banner’s list a second time. Almost done. The town’s doctor purchased most of the herbal packets, tinctures, lozenges and salves that Loki produced, although he earned far more money out the back door with prepared mushrooms, laudanum, and drugged tobaccos.

The second time the scruffy blond cowboy passed in front of the shop, Loki folded the list and put it away. It was a pleasant day, and not too windy. The man looked familiar somehow, and Loki was never one to rush a thought. He took up three of his mortars and a bag of rice, taking them outside to clean the herbal residue from the inside of the marble cups. It was his habit most days to use water and salt to clean the bowls, but sometimes a more thorough cleaning was necessary, and he ground cup after cup of rice until the rice dust came out white and clean. It was an outdoor job, and gave him reason to sit on the tiny porch to his apothecary shop and watch the streets.

And, more precisely, get a closer look at the newcomer.

Loki was certain he knew the man from somewhere, just not certain where he’d seen the face before.

It was of no matter that the residents of Iron Valley scuttled to the other side of the street to avoid Loki’s shop. They did not care for him, and what did he mind of that? When they needed him, they would be there, cap in hand, coin in pocket, and that was all that mattered. He sat down, gathering the folds of his apron around him. Tucking the mortar between his knees, Loki poured a handful of rice into the cup and started grinding. Cleaning the mortars was dull work, left the mind free to think and ponder and plot.

Loki’s eyes were sharp and his mind sharper. He worked the pestle in the bowl, listening to the rounds of the rice breaking down, felt as the fine grains shifted and wore down inside the bowl, under his hand. He scanned the streets. Stark was there, finely dressed dandy that he was, one hand tucked into his belt, his gun riding low on one thigh. Unusual. Stark wasn’t usually one to wander the streets armed.

“Anthony,” Loki called out a greeting to him.

“Odinson,” Stark replied, and only Loki would have noticed the pause and the deep inhalation before Stark stepped off the street and toward the apothecary. Stark knew which side of his bread was buttered -- Loki provided the medication for him that kept his heart strong, and Stark did well to remember his obligations. “Any news?”

Loki, as brother to Thor, was privy to much rumor and news. Coach drivers carried word and mail from the furthest cities along with passengers, and much passed from the drivers to Loki’s brother. Thor himself was not prone to gossip and it took a subtle mind to tempt the news from him, but Loki had many years of practice. He leaned in close. “I have heard a few things,” he said.   

Stark wasn’t interested in the regular sorts of gossip, but mentioning the triple-air brake system for trains that Westinghouse was developing got his attention. Loki kept his eye on the street as he filled Stark in on the details as he knew them. The blond man made his way back from the mercantile shops at the end of the row, a packet under one arm, and without drawing attention to himself, Loki made a study of the man’s face.

“Stark!”

“Oh, how enthralling,” Loki drawled. “Look, Anthony, it’s our new townsman, and he seems to want you for something --” Loki paused, took a breath. The lines were there, connecting, he could almost see them. The blonde, that angle on his face… want… Ah!

“Huzzah,” Stark muttered.

It was time to bow out of the conversation. Loki poured the finely ground rice powder into a sack -- the powder could be mixed with water for a general cure-all that he sold bottled and shipped out on one of his brother’s coaches to snake-oil salesmen in San Francisco -- and stood. “It has been a delight to speak with you again, Mr. Stark.” He ignored Stark’s pleading eyes that asked not to be left alone with the newcomer. Loki was an expert at withdrawing from conversations he did not wish to have; Stark could take lessons. But not right now.

Loki put the bag aside and dug into the stacks of news broadsheets from under the counter. No, no, no. Yes. He spread the print-board likeness over the countertop.

**$500 reward**

**Wanted: Barton Brothers, Barney and Clint**

**Clint Barton**

**Shootist**

**Gambler**

**Train robber**

**Coach robber**

**Barney Barton**

**Murderer**

**Shootist**

**Pugilist**

**Train robber**

**Coach robber**

**The Barton brothers are known to have killed one Jacques “the Swordsman” Duquesne and fled west for “health reasons” which included not being hanged for murder. Robbery and assault warrants have been issued based on eyewitness testimony.  Currently being sought for the robbery of the Memphis-California Goldball train. Collection of reward, preferred alive.**

Loki put it in mind. He had no need of money, but he liked to keep a thing, especially when it might serve him later. Having a lackey around, one who owed him silence, could be a good thing. It was not urgent, however. It would wait. The man might not even stay in town. No need to tip his hand so soon. But Loki liked having a contingency plan in place. One never quite knew what the future would bring.

***

_Sheriff’s Office, Iron Valley_

Speaking with James Rhodes about the attack on the Iron Man was a pointless effort. He blew the whole thing off as drunken shenanigans, which it could possibly have been, except Steve didn’t think so. Despite that, he didn’t get much traction with Rhodes, who said that he’d make sure Stark had a few words with the Sheriff at his earliest opportunity, which, knowing Stark, meant never. Stark… was a cagey fellow. Steve was never quite sure what to make of him. For someone who drank as much as he did, he was still quite clever.

Steve turned down an offer of cards and a drink, and was told that if he wasn’t interested in being a customer, he could kindly take his pretty self right out of the saloon, as his presence was putting the paying customers off their feed. Steve sighed, straightened his hat, and stalked back to his office. He’d go out to Stark Manor and speak with the man himself; not that he expected much in that direction. Stark had barely been seen outside his home in almost a week.

The slender red-headed sporting girl from the Iron Man, Natasha, was sitting in his office, dressed in trousers and a dun-colored blouse that hid most of her skin. She peered up at him from under the brim of a very old, battered sombrero.

“Sheriff,” she said, calm, as if she hadn’t spent the entirety of his interview with her the day before dodging questions.

“Miss Romanov,” Steve said, frowning.

“Reckon I should apologize,” she said, her eyes wide and guileless as a child’s.

“For lying about what happened at the Iron Man?” Steve sighed. “Look, ma’am, I don’t care what you do for a living, and --”

“I think someone’s planning on robbing Stark Manor,” she interrupted, not interested in whatever Steve had to say. “Which wouldn’t bother me none -- Stark’s a fool, and a rich one, at that -- except he’s got a friend of mine mixed up in it, and I’m worried that my friend might be hurt.”

“Do I want to know how you know this?”

She flashed him a quick smile. “I know everything.”  

Well, Steve had been planning to go out there anyway, so this would be a good opportunity. “Do you have a horse?”

Natasha just looked at him like he was an idiot. Well, she probably wasn’t heavy, so she could ride double. The ride out to the manor wasn’t long, although Steve would admit to feeling exceptionally awkward with Natasha pressed against his back, her arms loose over his hips and her hands on his legs.

Steve hadn’t been out to the Stark Manor since they were building it, Stark with all his fancy steam-run equipment that was noisy, smelly, leaked smoke everywhere from the furnaces that ran the boilers, but -- and Steve would only admit this under duress -- very efficient. But dangerous. There’d been three accidents during the process, one from an earthmover had nearly resulted in a man’s death, and Steve did not approve of this so-called modern progress. There was nothing unholy about building a thing with your own strong hands.

“The place looks secure, ma’am,” Steve said, flicking his gaze around at the house and the grounds. All very neat and tidy. Stark had water piped in from the river, so unlike a lot of the town, his lawn actually looked nice and neat. Almost like back east. Maybe that was another reason that Steve didn’t like him so much; Stark tried to move east with him, rebuilding his old life here, rather than a new one.

“Give it a bit, cowboy,” Natasha said. She hopped down off the side of his horse and wandered off to a tree, peering at the house from out of sight. “My friend is here, but he seemed wounded. I don’t want to spook him.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“The man who changed my life,” she said. “I met ‘im during the war. Saved his life. Didn’t mean to. But the Crow tribe, who raised me, always said that once you saved a man, his life was yours. They don’t mean it the same way the whites do; that the man becomes my property, but that I am responsible for the life saved. So, I’d like to make sure he’s all right, before we head back?”

“Then let’s go up an’ see that he’s well, and not skulk out here like we’re guilty of some wrong doing, ma’am?” Steve suggested.

The look she shot at him was enough to skin his nose.

“You haven’t told me enough to trust you,” Steve felt obligated to point out.

“I tell no one enough for that,” she said. “But yes. James should be happy to see me, and the house is better defensible if we are inside it.”

Steve dismounted and led his horse, wrapping leather reins around the hitching post in front of Stark’s manor.

He knocked on the door and Stark’s man, Jarvis, answered. “Mr. Stark is from home, Sheriff,” Jarvis said. “I would be delighted to let him know you called.”

Natasha was already trying to peek past the skinny butler into the depths of the house.

“We can speak with Mr. Stark’s guest, then?” Steve asked. “I’m told he’s an old friend of my companion here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know to whom you are referring, sir,” Jarvis said, attitude getting crisper and more starched by the moment.

“I saw him,” Natasha said. “Earlier. He’s here. Hurt, I think. But he knows me, it’s all right. I’m not here to cause him any manner of mischief.”

“Ma’am, I simply cannot allow --”

Natasha pushed past the ancient butler, who grabbed her arm in an iron grip. “Ma’am, I will not allow you to breach the security of Mr. Stark’s home. Do not force me to hurt you.”

Steve put a hand on her shoulder as she shifted her weight, got her hand in position to do something dangerous and stupid. “Don’t.”

“Take your hands off Jarvis,” a deep, rumbling voice said. A cold press of iron landed on the back of Steve’s neck. He hadn’t seen a thing, hadn’t heard a sound. “Don’t turn, you don’t need t’ know anything except I will cut you down if you hurt that man.”

“James?” Natasha turned, her hands coming up to show no weapons, Jarvis’s fingers still encircling her wrist, and now the butler was armed, too, a gun from his jacket pocket. What in tarnation was going on here.

“I will kill this man,” James said. His voice tickled at something deep in Steve’s mind. _Impossible._ Steve’s blood turned to ice in  his veins.

“I surrender,” Steve said. He took his gun from his belt and held it out. The butler released his hold on Natasha to take it from him.

“What do you want with me?” James asked.

Steve turned, slow, so slow. What he saw in front of him was a ghost. A dead man.

“Bucky?”

The man jerked, twitched. His hair, long and tangled, fell in his face. He looked up at Steve with gray eyes as familiar as the ones that met his own in the mirror each morning. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki is mixing a home remedy for heart arrhythmia; taurine (found in animal intestines) and the herb goldenseal is supposed to help calm the heart. I can’t vouch for the recipe or anything, but I found it while doing research.


	9. Blood Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shield's men attack Tony's mansion... our heroes hold their own. Until Bucky's memory starts to come back at the least convenient time...

__

 

_Stark Manor, Iron Valley_

Billy didn’t have time to gape at the man. There were shadows moving in the trees, behind some of the small outbuildings. He cocked his gun, barrel still pointed at the man.

The man kept his hands in sight, not flinching, his eyes full of strange, unknowable pain. “You know me.”

Billy shivered. It was like a hive full of bees had crawled into his head, stinging and buzzing. “No, I don’t!” He shoved the gun harder at the man, wanting to shoot him, wanting to end this pain and confusion.  
  
“Bucky. you've known me your entire life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”

“Shut up!” Billy clenched his jaw, getting ready to end this man’s life.

The red-headed girl put her hand gently on his wrist. “Sergeant Barnes,” she said, quietly. “I know you, as well.”

Billy couldn’t breathe. His broken arm throbbed from the effort of holding the gun. If he had to fire it, he’d probably undo all the healing that had already gone through. “I don’t… I don’t know you,” he protested. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

“I saved your life. Got you out of Castle Thunder,” the woman said, and she looked… familiar. Strange and fey, a creature of legend, beautiful and utterly untouchable. “The least you could do is recognize me.”

“My name is Billy Stark,” Billy said, shaking. God, he was shaking. “I belong _here_.”

“Look, you need to leave, now,” the woman said. “There are bad men, a lot of them, and they’re coming to steal stuff from Stark’s vault. I don’t think they’ll go looking for anyone to hurt -- the miners should be safe, but you and Jeeves here need to go.”

“It’s Jarvis, ma’am,” Jarvis said, stiffly. “And we will not relinquish the master’s property to ruffians.”

“Too late,” Bill said. “Give me one reason, pal, to let you in the house.”

“What?”

“They’re already here,” the woman said, her eyes flicking from point to point. “Let us in, we’ll fight with you.”

The man who called himself Steve Rogers clapped Billy’s shoulder. “I don’t care what name you call yourself,” he said. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

The words shook something deep in Billy’s mind, but much as he wanted to chase it down, he didn’t have time. They were coming. Billy could feel the itch in his spine. “In the house, now,” he said, shoving Jarvis behind the reinforced door. The two strangers ducked inside and Billy barely got the door closed before the shooting started.

Roger’s horse went down with a scream like a woman and the man himself jerked toward the door. Fool. Billy grabbed his arm. “You wanna die, you go right on out there, pal,” Billy snarled. “Jarvis, get all the guns and ammo, bring ‘em here. Rogers, flip the tables, get ‘em in front of the windows. You couldn’t have got here sooner with your damn warning, could you? Always late.”

Rogers shot him a startled look. “Yeah, that… that’s been a problem.”

“What do you want me to do?” the woman asked.

“What do I call you, Red?”

“That’ll do,” she said, smiling like she knew something he didn’t.

“Can you shoot?”

“You really don’t remember me,” she said. She reached past him to where Jarvis had just dumped the first load of rifles and pistols. Tony had told him that, back in New York, the Starks were mostly known for their weapons development. Apparently, Tony collected a wide variety of different weapons, for whatever purpose. Red picked up a pair of pearl-handled pistols and grabbed a wooden crate of ammo for it, shoving bullets into the cylinder, her fingers fast and graceful. Watching her load the revolver gave Billy the shivers. He --

Had work to do that wasn’t gettin’ done while he was prodding holes in his broken brain. He ran his good hand through his hair and yanked on it, using the pain to ground himself. He picked through the collection of guns, dropped a few at each window. Pulled furniture in front of the glass where he could.    

Billy dropped to one knee, peering out the window, trying to spot the intruders. His eyes flickered from point to point; breath slowing. His heartbeats were loud in his ears, louder even than the sporadic gunfire from outside. Rogers yelled something, Billy couldn’t understand it. He watched, traced the echo of rifle whine. A blanket of ice dropped over him, and this, this was familiar.

He checked the ground, the shadows melded strangely; he caught a glimpse of fabric, black and deadly, against one of the outbuildings. He took air, swung just a little inside; the bolt-action he’d obtained would have enough punch to go straight through the wood. Two shots, maybe, and he’d tag. He waited for the perfect moment.

Heart beat. Breath. Finger on the trigger. Inhale. Hearbeat.

Only as much pressure as he needed.

BLAM!

He compensated for the recoil, fired again. His arm was screaming in agony, but he didn’t have time for it.

A shout from the yard, a brilliant spill of wine-red blood stained the grass. The man was on the move. Billy led the runner with the rifle, counted steps. Pulled the trigger.

The black-clad man went down in a tangle of limbs and didn’t move again.

“How many?” Red yelled from the other room, her voice barely audible over the gunplay. Windows smashed, dishes cracked. A section in the front hallway was so riddled with bullets that the grandfather clock fell to the floor with discordant bells.

Billy couldn’t see anyone else out there, but there had to be. Billy grabbed a second rifle and legged it for the stairs. A smashing spray of wood splinters caught him across one arm and his hip as he dashed past the entryway. Blood prickled and stained his shirt. Up the stairs, boots pounding on the wooden floor.

Only the faintest buzzing sound, like a bottle fly caught against the window, warned him. Billy went to his knees, floor tearing open his trousers, bending backward as several arrows zinged in through the broken window. They tore into the wall behind him, lethal and elegant.

That bowman was _fucking_ dangerous. Billy scrambled across the floor, crabbing on elbows and knees. His arm was on goddamn fire, dripping blood from shrapnel and splinters. He made it to the window, jerked up to look.

Another series of arrows came sailing in, fletching aflame. One landed square in Tony’s chifferobe; the dry wood bursting into flame almost immediately, the clothing adding quickfuel to it. Billy swore, grabbed at the ewer of water by Tony’s bed and doused the fire. It wouldn’t be enough, not if there were half a dozen more setting fire to key parts of the house.

They were gonna fuckin’ die here, and Billy didn’t even know why. He didn’t know who was out there, he didn’t know who was in here.

Tony, Tony… at least Tony was safe, in town, away from this mess.

But if Billy died, died here, who would take care of Tony?

Another arrow came whizzing through and Billy rolled, popped up, fired at the shadow of shape in the yard. A muffled scream was his reward.

“The house’s on fire,” Rogers bellowed from downstairs.

 _Really? Tell me somethin’ I didn’t know._ Punk.

Billy blinked. His head ached so bad, more than injury, more than fear. _Punk… Steve, you little punk…_

_No, no no no no. Not now._

***

_Brooklyn, New York 1849_

“No, no, no, you need to tuck your elbows in,” Bucky said. He turned the brim of his fisherman’s cap to block the sun from his eyes. The boy up at bat was a skinny little beanpole, all elbows and skinned knees. He had a bandage over his nose and a brilliant bruise on his chin. He was swinging a bat at a rounders ball tied to a string and bound up in the fire escape several feet above him.

Sort of. The ball wasn’t barely even moving, ‘cept when the boy’s wild swings forced the air to make it sway.

“Shut up,” the other boy said. He glared at Bucky, blue eyes hot and angry. “Ain’t nobody asked you.”

Bucky lowered his eyes to the bat the other boy was wielding, more like a hammer than a sporting tool. “Bring yer elbows in, close t’ your body,” he said, demonstrating with an air-bat, mimicking the motions. “You get a better swing that way.”

“What’re you, expert ‘rounders player?”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah. Don’t you know who I am?” He thumped himself in the chest proudly. Bucky Barnes, son of the butcher, was a damn fine rounders player. He was a legend on the schoolyard and he damn well knew it, too. Took pride in his skill.

The kid scuffed his feet, looking down at the pitiful puffs of dust. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” he admitted. “Ever’one knows who you are.”

Well, everyone in a few blocks radius around Pierrepont street. Who was under the age of twelve.

“So, like this.” Bucky came up behind the boy, helped him get his hands arranged on the bat. “Spread your feet, that’s it. Feel what you got here, swing from your hips, not your arms.”

For an instant, that jaw tightened and Bucky wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t going to get struck with the receiving end of the bat, and then the kid relaxed. Let Bucky help him swing.

“Try that,” Bucky said, encouragingly. He stepped back out of the way, then stepped even further. The kid wound up, twisted from the hips and nearly knocked himself over from the force of his swing.

“Oh, that was excellent,” the kid said, dripping sarcasm. “Could do better on m’ own!”

“Watch your elbows,” Bucky reminded him. “Go on, try again.”

That time, the bat connected with the leather ball with a satisfying crack, swinging wildly. It flicked off the narrow alley and rebounded.

“Foul ball,” Bucky reported.

“You’re such a jerk,” the other kid said.

“Punk,” Bucky responded, immediately. “Lemme try.”

“You ain’t goan take my bat, are you?” The kid cradled the wood to his chest.

“Nah, I’ll give’t back,” Bucky said. Had someone stolen the kid’s bat? That was a low blow. Bucky went to take the ashhandle from him when he noticed the kid was breathing hard, wheezing, like he’d caught cold. “You sick?”

The boy nodded. “Filthy air,” he said. “I… my name’s Steve Rogers.”

“Good to meet you, Steve,” Bucky said. He held his hand out for the bat and Steve handed it over, a little gingerly, still eyeing Bucky with undisguised suspicion. Well, the best way to teach him trust was to be trustworthy.

Bucky did a few practice swings, then lined up and whaled the hell out of the ball. It shot forward with a crack like lightning, the rope taking it on a beautiful arc where it wound itself around the fire escape several times.

“Home run!” Bucky eyed the ball. “Don’t s’pose that’s your fire escape?” Because if it wasn’t, Bucky wasn’t sure how they were going to get the ball back down.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “You’re pretty good. You wanna come in, have a glass of gingerbeer?”

Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s skinny shoulders. “Think you jus’ became my new best friend.”

***

_Shield Ranch, Iron Valley_

“Funny how freedom ain’t free,” Alexander Pierce commented idly. He was sitting on Fury’s wooden porch, whiskey and three cents plain in a cup.

There wasn’t anything Nicholas Fury hated more than a white man with an agenda. Pierce had enough agenda for a whole town hall’s worth of white men. There weren’t shit he could do about it, though. Pierce held all the cards. Every single one. Even the damn deuce of spades.

“Ever’thing comes with a cost,” Fury agreed. He thought he’d paid it. A perfect moment, a clean shot, and weeks walking cross country. A chunk of gold in a squatter’s pan and a new start. He started with a tiny chunk of land just on the edge of Indian territory and had ended up owning half the valley, filled it with his cattle, hired men. There were white men and Mexicans who called Nick Fury _bossman_.

“Just a few more tasks and we can put all this nasty business behind us,” Pierce said. Fury wasn’t so much of a fool; he didn’t believe the man for a second. That was the thing with blackmail. It never stopped. You could never pay enough, once you started paying.

Pierce had started small, just leaning on Fury. Hire this ranchero. Intimidate this family. Fetch this. Stop that.

And suddenly Shield ranch, which Fury’d meant to be the base of operations for his farm and cattle herding, had become some sort of gang. Pierce ran the place in all but name; more than half the ‘hands were his personal pick. Greasy and dirty and dishonest. They wore the symbol of some mythical monster tattooed on their skin. Hydra. Murderers and thieves.

“Why leave me in charge t’all?” Fury asked. This last task, what Pierce was asking for, that was ugly, and Fury didn’t want it. “Be easier t’ just give the orders yourself.”

“Because you’re the best,” Pierce said. “I don’t tell you how to do it, just what to do. You’re a brilliant tactician. You’ve preserved more lives, gotten better results than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re the most ruthless person I’ve ever met.”

Fury winced. That was true. He did what needed to be done. “I did what I did to protect people.” His people. He’d brought half a dozen with him, had put the word out that if an ex-slave needed work, he could find work on Shield ranch.

“My enemies are your enemies, Fury,” Pierce said, easily. “You think Stark’s gonna let a whole ranch full of darkies so close to his precious iron mine? That man supplied all the weapons for north and south during the war. He doesn’t care who lives, who dies, so long as he makes a profit. And your profit’s gonna extend on his profit. You think you can make friends with a man like that? It’s a bandage. A holding action. An’ you know where you learned that? Atlanta. You didn’t ask, you didn’t try to make friends. You did what needed to be done. I can bring order and peace to this whole valley by killing… four men? It’s the next step, if you have the courage to take it.”

Fury slanted a look at Pierce. _What if I have the courage not to?_

***

_Stark Manor, Iron Valley_

Steve groaned. The manor was on fire and Jarvis was trying to smother the flames. Steve could have told him it was wasted effort, but he didn’t have the breath. He pressed his hand against his gut, it came back wet and soaked with blood. He staggered to the sideboard, dug out some of Stark’s best table linens. And, because it was Stark, there was a bottle of spirits stashed under the tablecloth that he’d probably forgotten about.

Steve field-dressed his wound as fast as he could. He used liberal amounts of the spirits, both splashed over the tears in his skin and down his throat. There was a matching hole in his back; at least the bullet had gone through and through. He packed the napkins tight on both holes and wrapped his gut with strips of shredded tablecloth. Gingerly, he pulled his shirt back on before Nat was back in the room.

“They ran off,” she reported. “Left four behind, but took all the damn horses with them.”

Bucky dragged himself into the room, bleeding from half a dozen wounds. Steve’s gut churned, it was more than just the pain of being shot. “Them outlaws were all carrying these,” he said, throwing down a metal badge, a skull with legs like an octopus. “And one of ‘em had this.” Bucky added a piece of leather with Shield’s brand burned into the corner. “You know ‘em, Rogers?”

“Fury’s men,” Steve said. “They’ve been trouble before, but not like this.”

“Like Strucker, in town,” Nat said. “Big men who like to use their fists.” The way her eyes shifted, Steve assumed she knew more than that, but he’d already tried to press her for information and found her as forthcoming as a rock. Besides, he was in pain.

“We need to get in to town,” Steve said. “They could be going after Mr. Stark next. Or getting reinforcements to try to take the manor. In either case, I don’t think we should be here, without some backup.”

“We’re gonna have to walk, and you boys look like shit,” Nat said.

Steve grinned, more of a grimace than expression of happiness, but when Bucky met his eyes and his own mouth twitched up, the pain didn’t matter.

“We’ve done it before,” Steve said. He slung an arm over Bucky’s shoulders, letting the man support his weight.

“I don’t--” Bucky said, then blinked. “Well, I don’t remember all of it, but… your mom’s name was Sarah.” He laughed a little, broken, but a laugh. “An’ you used to put newspapers in your shoes, to keep the water out.”

Steve barely managed to resist the urge to weep with gratitude. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“So, just like that, we’re good?” Nat asked.

“We’re good,” Steve said.


	10. The Honor of an Outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Tony play cards... this does not go well for Clint... in fact, nothing goes well for Clint.

__

 

 

_Iron Man Saloon, Iron Valley_

Clint was sweating up under this shirt and vest. The air was motionless. Even the dust specks seemed suspended in the air. The bartender, Rhodes, wiped down the tables with slow, easy motions, his brown eyes seldom straying from the card table.

Clint’s drink was long neglected. It hadn’t taken but two hands to realize that he needed all his wits about him. Reckon he could have used a bit of someone else’s wits, too, but he hadn’t worked out quite a way to do that without cheatin’. And Clint Barton didn’t _cheat_. He wasn’t a card cheat. Everything he won, everything he did, he got because he earned it.

He didn’t normally need to cheat. Usually he was just good. He had a good head for cards. He didn’t get emotional. He was observant. He knew tricks and tells. Playing cards wasn’t usually about the cards so much as it was playing the people. It wasn’t necessarily knowing that he had a good hand (although having a good hand certainly helped). It was playing that the other person had a worse hand.

Stark… Stark didn’t have any tells.

He kept up clever banter with the bartender; drank excessively (especially given that it was still only mid-afternoon and Stark had gone through most of a bottle of high end whiskey all on his own without showing even the slightest crack) and generally carried on like he wasn’t casually cleaning Clint’s clock.

Honestly, the only reason why Clint hadn’t ceded the floor -- he didn’t have the sort of stubborn pride that so blinded his brother, Clint knew when he was outclassed -- was that the longer he kept Stark here, playing cards, the more time his brother had to get what he wanted from the Stark mansion and get the fuck out.

Staying in the game was saving Stark’s life, even if Stark didn’t know it.

Which meant Clint really needed to pick up his game, or Stark was going to clear him out in another two hands and be on his merry. And while Clint was astonished and impressed at the man’s tolerance for whiskey, he wasn’t too sure the man could shoot straight enough to take on Barney “Trickshot” Barton and live after half a bottle of booze.

Delay. That was what he needed. A delay.

“Are you planning on eloping with that card, Barton?” Stark asked, eyeing him. He’d put his cards face down on the table, his hand holding them down. The man had rolled up his sleeves a few hands in, because one of the sportin’ girls had wondered out loud if he was sleevin’ cards. Stark had rolled his eyes at her and told her that she was no longer his favorite. She didn’t seem to mind.

The problem was, Clint wasn’t so great at thinkin’. Which was probably how he ended up in trouble so often. He wasn’t dumb; although much like a pretty woman, he’d found pretending to be dumb was damn useful. But he wasn’t always clever, either. And coming up with a plan on the fly, when the previous plan had just been beat the hell out of the guy in a game of cards, was a little further beyond his skills than Clint was used to.

They weren’t even on the second floor, which made his usual backup plan useless. There was no real point to diving out the window on the ground floor. He’d be caught in less’n a minute and have nothing to show for it but bruises.

“He is, really, going to marry that card, I think,” Stark observed. Clint realized he’d just been sitting there, absently studying his hand, for the last two or three minutes without saying a word.

“I’m afraid I don’t perform marriage ceremonies in my jail, Mr. Stark,” the sheriff said. He came into the bar, a dark-haired man just behind him. Both of them showed recent evidence of being in a firefight, blood splattered and filthy.

Stark pushed away from the table, shock, anger, fear warring for supremacy on his clever handsome face. “Billy?”

“What’s going on here?” Clint demanded. Nat was lurking around the back of the group, sooty and reeking of fire.

“Clint Barton, you’re under arrest for colluding with outlaws an’ thieves,” Sheriff Rogers said. The man’s gun was already out and pointed at Clint’s midsection.

Damn. He shoulda gone out the window while he had the chance.

***

_Iron Valley Sheriff's Office_

“What the hell is going on around here?” Stark was hot on Steve’s heels, yapping like one of those dogs that thinks it was a lot bigger than it was.

“Mr. Stark,” Steve tried to explain, carefully. Maybe if he said it all very clearly, Stark would understand and stop bothering him. “Your house was burned down by outlaws and bandits. Me an’ Bucky managed to kill a few, but the rest of ‘em got away. Now, I don’t know for sure what they were after on your property, but I’ve reason to suspect there may be a lot more of them than we’ve seen yet. So, while I’d love to sit down and yarn with you about it, I need to get a posse together so we can ‘round up those outlaws before they hurt anyone else.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Stark said, stopping dead in the office doorway.

“I am,” Bucky said. “Tony… look, Tony, I’m sorry. I don’t… I didn’t lie to you, or nothin’. Swear. I don’t even remember that much, but me and Steve, we knew each other. _He knows me_.”

“Known him my whole life,” Steve agreed. “My best friend, growing up. Inseparable. Except we got separated. Gettysburg. I thought he was dead. I can’t… I can’t tell you how happy I am to see him again.”

“What happened to my house? Is Jarvis all right?” Stark was brushing aside Steve’s hands, grabbing hold of his vest and shaking him.

“Tony,” Bucky said, and Stark whirled around, wide eyed and impossibly hurt. “Jarvis is fine. We sent him on to the mines with orders to evacuate him an’ the men. Traveling in a big group that way to town, s’gonna take ‘em a while to get here, but them banditos shouldn’t bother ‘em. No profit in it.”

Barton, the man in the jail cell, who was leaning against the bars with a sullen look, scoffed at this. “You don’t know Hydra real well, do you, deputy marshal.”

“You know who I am?” Bucky asked, glancing at Barton.

“I know you been on our trail for quite some time now,” he said. “An’ you ain’t caught me or my brother. So, either you’re incompetent--” He flinched back as Bucky’s hand touched the gun in his belt “--or my brother and his friend Rumlow outsmarted you. Again.”

“This is not the time for you to be mouthin’ off, Barton,” Steve said.

“You should listen to him, Sheriff,” Nat said. She was still lingering around, like she had some right to be there.

“Ma’am,” Steve said, touching his hat. “I appreciate your advice and your warning, but I don’t trust you. You know too much to be an honest citizen, and you’re in particular cahoots with my wanted outlaw here.” Steve glanced at Bucky. “I am also grateful for what you’ve done for Bucky, in the past. I’m not going to look to deep into who you are and what crimes you’re wanted for, but I’m betting if I did look, I’d find something.”

“And what if you did?” Stark was staring at the sporting girl like he’d never seen her before, even though she was one of his procured wares.

“Well, I’d probably have to arrest her, too,” Steve said. “And if I was feeling particularly ornery about it, Mr. Stark, I might have some questions as to why you’re hiding a deputy marshal at your homestead under an assumed name, why you’re hiring criminals, and what exactly a gang of outlaws wants at your damn house. Now, I don’t want to get all the way up to ornery, so I’m going to put a posse together, I’m going to track down this Hydra gang, and I’m going to bring peace back to Iron Valley. Are we clear on this?”

“So, you’re the man with the plan,” Stark said, bitter and nasty. “What are we doing now?”

Steve pointed to Stark. “You… stay here. You’re not a fighter, Stark, and I don’t want you getting hurt.” He jabbed a finger in Nat’s direction. “You, leave town. Preferably on the very next stage. You’re trouble and I don’t want you here. And you, come with me.” That was directed at Bucky.

“I need to clean up a bit, get Doc Banner to look at this wound, an’ get more ammo. Then we’ll see about a posse. I need you backing me up on this, Buck, you good with that?”

“You know I’ll follow you, Captain,” Bucky said, giving him a mocking little salute. “Til the end of the line.”

Stark took a deep breath, looked almost ready to say something, anything, and knowing Stark it would be like spookin’ a horse, loud, complicated, and accomplishing nothing. And then his eyes fixed on Bucky for a long moment and he subsided. “Take care of yourself, then, Billy,” he said. “Ma’am.” He offered an arm to Nat. “Seems you might need some help getting your things together, if you’re going to be leaving my employ so unexpectedly soon.”

“Tony--” Bucky held out a hand, but Stark didn’t stop, didn’t turn. And didn’t look back.

***

_Iron Man Saloon, Iron Valley_

Tony Stark was laying on what used to be Natasha’s bed, staring at the ceiling. She wondered if he saw the same things there that she did; there was a bump in the plaster that she thought rather resembled a pony, especially when the lamp near the door was lit, and she’d stared at it herself through sleepless nights.

When he’d said he would help her pack, she thought he’d either meant it as a legitimate offer, that he’d place her few dresses in her bags and see her off to the coaching station. Or that it was a shady offer and that he’d insist on taking his trade, since she was leaving his employ and she had yet to lay with him.

What she hadn’t expected was him to flop onto her bed, lace his hands behind his neck and start grilling her on what she knew about the Sheriff’s friend.

She gave him what she knew; strange for her. She usually hoarded her information and secrets like a pirate with gold. But there was no need to do so, here. As soon as she finished packing, she and Clint would be in the wind, like nothing more than a moment’s memory.

“Step out of my room,” Natasha said, when she’d finished telling Stark of the horrific experiences the Sergeant had gone through in Castle Thunder. “I need to change my clothes.”

“No, you don’t,” Stark said, sitting up.

“I cannot go on the stagecoach in breeches,” Natasha protested. Even an eccentric drunk like Stark should know that much.

“You’re not getting on the stage,” Stark said. “You’re going to come with me back to my property and help me ensure the safety of the men there, and then we’re going to find the sons of bitches who burned my house down. After that, if you still want to get on the stage, I’ll buy your passage. And don’t worry, I have every intention of getting your friend out of the pokey. I imagine his presence in town is the only reason I wasn’t shot this afternoon. I don’t take threats to my life seriously, but I do take people who put themselves at risk to save it very seriously.”

Natasha stared at him, hands on her hips. If he was planning this, why let her pack at all?

She didn’t even have to ask. Stark rolled out of her bed and gave her a wide, brilliant grin. It didn’t touch his eyes at all and he looked sincerely miserable for reasons she wasn’t comprehending. “We needed to let the Sheriff get away, if we’re going to engineer a little jailbreak, yeah? When it gets dark, I’ll go play my role as town drunk and distract the deputy -- Wilson will probably be bringing your man food -- while you get him out. The cell keys are always in the top drawer of Roger’s desk. He’s terribly predictable.”

Stark made a face, his mouth twisting.

“You did not expect his friendship with the Sergeant,” Natasha suggested.

“I did not,” Stark responded. “I knew the good Sheriff had lost someone in the war, but the way he talked…”

“You assumed it was a woman?” Natasha filled in. That would explain many things; what she had heard about Stark, and what had actually happened with Stark. And why Stark was smiling and yet looking so very, very sad.

Stark didn’t answer her.

Natasha pulled a brace of knives from the liner of her steamer trunk, tied the sheath belt around her waist and secured it on each thigh. “I am ready,” she said.

“I’ll give you an hour after sunset, then I go on alone,” Stark said. “If you’ve no intent to help me, get your man and get out of town. Rogers won’t shoot you on sight, he’s not that sort of man, but if he has to arrest you again, you’ll probably both be hanged. And… Rogers would do it, but it would break him more, inside. He deserves better than that.”

Someday, Natasha thought, shaking her head sadly, she’d just be able to stick to the goddamn plan.

***

_Iron Man Saloon, Iron Valley_

Deputy Wilson was, in fact, just about done with Iron Valley. It was hot, it was flat, and it was as boring as it was hot and flat. The only thing flatter, hotter, and more boring he could think of was his sister’s griddle cakes, and Sam ate those every morning, so he was well versed in flat, hot, and boring, thank you very much.

Mostly what he hated was the fact that he knew, knew mind you, that Rogers was up to something. Something was Going On, and he hadn’t bothered to inform his own damn deputy? He’d just stopped in, left him instructions to feed and keep a weather eye on the prisoner, and then limped off in the direction of the Doc’s.

Sam was the damn deputy, it would be only reasonable if he had a clue what was going on. When he was younger, just starting out, he was sure that Rogers was testing him, making him work out for himself what was going n in the tiny town of Iron Valley. That he was training, or trust.

It probably wasn’t, Sam eventually decided. It was just that Rogers was riding blind and didn’t let Sam know anything because Rogers had no damn clue what he was doing at any given time. Which would be less annoying if things didn’t have a way of working out for Rogers despite an obvious lack of planning.

Sam didn’t mind not havin’ a plan; he’d been known to improvise a bit from time to time himself. Coming to Iron Valley after the war had been improvisation, after all. He and his sister were nothin’ but kids, but the south was heating up, after the war, worse than before. They’d scrounged for money and ended up paying for seats in the back of a wagon. Riley, a former foreman, was leaving the south and headed west, and he didn’t have a bit of a problem with Sam and Sarah paying their way.

Sam had hunted for their supper and Sarah had cooked it, and Riley had driven the wagon. For months, they’d traveled together and Sam had come to believe that Riley was his friend, the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And about a day’s ride outside of Iron Valley, they’d been robbed by bandits, and Riley’d been shot. There was nothing Sam could do to help him, it was like he’d been in that wagon just to watch Riley topple out of the driver’s bench and onto the ground, bleeding.

The bandits had taken the wagon and the horse and all their money and supplies and left the two siblings there without water.

If Steve Rogers hadn’t found them -- the birds were already circling, and he’d gone out to investigate -- Sam and his sister would have died less than four miles from town. But Steve had found them, he had brought them in. And then he’d given Sam a job; and not a small, unimportant job. He’d pinned a star on Sam and swore him in on the side of the law.

He leaned against the bar at the Iron Man. Rhodey finally came out of the back with a plate and tin bowl containing a couple flat cakes, a bowl of some kind of soup, and a mess of beans and greens. “For your guest,” Rhodey said, then glanced up. “Tones.”

“Hey, honeybear,” Tony Stark said, coming in. “Ah, Deputy Wilson, just the… just person I wanted to see.”

Sam’s eyebrow went up so high he felt his hat shift on his head. He tucked it back down. Stark had barely a word to say to the Sheriff most of the time (and when he did have words with Rogers, they were usually loud and drunk) and Sam thought he’d maybe exchanged more than a howdy with Stark… twice in the three years he’d lived in Iron Valley.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stark?” Sam asked, leaning his elbows against the bar and getting comfortable. He might not have spoken with Stark all that terribly often, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know the man, and Stark was a talkative bastard. If he wanted something, it was going to take him at least half an hour to get to the damn point.

Stark opened his mouth and for half a second, Sam had no idea what just happened.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

“What th’ hell?”

Rhodey dove behind the bar and came out with a sawed-off shotgun.

“Shit,” Stark said. “Well, I was here to be the damn distraction, Deputy, but looks like my main course is startin’ trouble.”

“Stark, you stay here,” Sam burst, drawing his sidearm and headed to the batwings.

“Excuse me for contradicting you, Deputy,” Stark said. He pulled a tiny pistol from the small of his back, “but I’m pretty sure you’re going to want backup for this.”

“Are you even kidding me?”

“Nope,” Stark said, popping the p with relish. “Rhodey’ll back us up on the street Howitzer, and don’t shoot at the red-headed girl.”

“Why do I expect that you are right in the middle of this trouble, Stark?”

“Because I always am.” Stark gave him a wild grin and then burst through the batwings, eyes on the street.

There were half a dozen of them, maybe more, and they were closing on the jail, weapons drawn.

“Maybe we should have a plan of attack?” Sam suggested in a low voice.

“I have a plan. Attack.”


	11. The Two Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look bad for Clint. Tony Stark leads the charge... Bucky and Steve seek help...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains vivid descriptions of past torture

__

 

_Iron Valley Sheriff’s office_

Clint watched the sun go down with trepidation.

It’s not that he expected Barney to do something brave and noble, like rescue his little brother from jail. He just could count the number of times on one hand that Barney had the opportunity to do something really stupid and didn’t take it. Certainly, it wouldn’t be out of any sort of affection.

It would be about control. About power. It would be about the fact that Clint was trapped in a damn jail cell and couldn’t get away, and even though he hadn’t fucked up his part of the bargain, Barney was going to come for him, and he was going to choke his fucking gold mine right out of Clint.

At least the Sheriff hadn’t come back yet. Which meant Clint was working the lock with the metal picks he kept sewn into the seam of his underwear. No lawman yet had been clever enough to strip Clint all the way down and provide him with new clothes, so he always had his picks with him. His pick next to his prick. Clint snickered to himself and leaned harder against the jail cell door.

He didn’t know how much time he’d have. Normally, he’d have waited until after dark to start working the lock. But the Sheriff could come back at any time. And there was at least one deputy that Clint knew of, and there was probably some sort of deal for the saloon to feed him. (The fact that no one had come yet to bring him dinner was both a relief and an annoyance. He was damned hungry.)

“Come on, come on, nice lock, pretty lock.” Clint was humming under his breath. He and Nat had their escape plan already in place; they always did. It was the very first thing they did when arriving in a new town.

If either of them were arrested or tagged by members of Hydra, they would split up, circle around, and meet within the next three days at a prearranged location. Nat would be on her way there, now, probably with a detour into the next town over via way of the stagecoach, since she’d been effectively run out of town.

“White hat asshole,” Clint muttered.

He’d already planned his next five moves. Get his guns out of the Sheriff’s desk, set off the gunpowder barrel he’d stashed away from town, behind a seldom used outhouse (create a distraction that wouldn’t hurt anyone), steal back his horse, and get the fuck out of town. Of course, all of those depended on item one on his list. Getting this damn lock open.

Clint was getting chills as the air cooled down, drying the sweat from his nerves. He wiped his hand on his trousers again, returned to the lock. He needed to remember to add a small scrap of mirror to his toolkit; this would go a hell of a lot faster if he could see, even a little bit. He wasn’t usually getting out of places so much as he was getting into them.

“Aw, lockpick, no,” Clint said. The pick snapped in half, the delicate metal stressed beyond its strength. Stupid lock. Clint reached for the other half of the pick and the lock tumbled open.

The cell door was just swinging open when Barney swaggered through the door, all arrogance and killing grace.

“Time t’ die, baby brother,” Barney said. “Sorry it’s gotta be this way.”

Barney aimed and fired.

Clint threw himself backward, kicking the cell door open with one booted foot. The bullet struck the bars of the door as it traveled, shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Clint snatched up the battered tin cup he’d been given and pegged it, full force, at his brother.

The second shot went off. Barney’s aim was poor that time, and Clint took the opportunity to lunge out of the cell. He kicked the Sheriff’s guest chair as he tumbled past, sending the piece of furniture up into Barney’s face. Barney roared in anger, shoving the chair back down. It hit the floor hard enough to become kindling.

Clint always knew it would end like this; him on the ground, terrified, and Barney’s gun staring him down. It had to. There was no way in hell he was getting out of this world on someone else’s bullet.

There was still a bit of something in him that both wanted to live and thought that maybe he didn’t deserve to die by his brother’s hand. Clint didn’t pause to look, didn’t try to talk Barney out of it. He fucking crawled, flinching away from the sounds of gunfire. Three. Four.

Yanked the desk drawer open on the Sheriff’s desk. Nearly lost his fingers doing it as the wood exploded into splinters and shrapnel. Five.

Grabbed his gun and rolled away again. Six.

Stood up, cocked his pistol.

“By my count, Barney, you’re empty.”

“I got another gun,” Barney snapped. His mouth twitched and he pulled the trigger on the empty one.

Clint didn’t… quite. Flinch. He wanted to. But he knew his count was right. “I already got you covered, brother,” he said. Strange, how still and calm and sure his voice was.

“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” Barney said.

Clint’s eye twitched. Was Barney’s hand closer to his second gun than it was a second ago? He couldn’t quite tell.

Also, why was he hesitating? Barney had just tried to shoot him like six goddamn times, how much more of an invitation did Clint need to just fight back?

“Go ahead,” Clint said, easily. “Try an’ skin it. Go ahead. Just give me a damn excuse already!”

“You cowardly piece of shit,” Barney snarled. “You never were shit, you never were good enough, you’re a fucking coward, you yellow bellied, crawling _dog_. You--”

Clint’s finger tightened on the trigger. “You sure, Barn? You sure about that?”

“Never been so sure about nothin’,” Barney spat. “You ain’t a Barton, Clint. You don’t deserve--”

Barney went for the gun.

Clint didn’t hesitate.

***

Natasha was a shadow.

Banditos were stupid. They walked in the shadow, but didn’t realize the moon caught their movements. She could tell where they were by glints of candle on their guns and their belts, any by the soft sounds of their spurs as they shifted, the creak of leather belts, the heavy tread of their boots.

The Black Widow, deadly little spider, moved close to the buildings, her body not stretching out to catch the light. She’d secured all her belts and holsters with soft cloth to muffle the sounds; a simple wax rub over buckles and metal to dull their reflections. She kept her eyes averted when she had to have them open that the gleam of her eyes might not give her away.

She stretched a narrow piece of wire between her fingers -- a quick death, crushing the windpipe. She could leap forward, catch the wire around a fragile throat. She’d use her knee for added leverage, planted in the middle of an enemy’s back and they would go down quickly, silently.

Word traveled quickly, she noted. Hydra was learning. Slow, admittedly, but they must have stationed outriders, to get word to their gang and then into town. She hadn’t seen smoke in the sky, so they still weren’t communicating in the fastest means possible, but she would allot some measure of competency to them. A very small measure.

She wasn’t entirely sure what they were up to, although as they gathered slowly, facing the saloon, she could guess.

Natasha took a moment to mourn Stark; he seemed a nice enough sort of man, and she was abandoning him against perhaps a dozen banditos, but her primary concern was Clint, and after Clint, Sergeant Barnes. She was also beginning to believe that these banditos were the sort of rabid wolves that needed to be put down, not just encouraged to hunt elsewhere.

She would speak with Clint about her thoughts on this.

One of the shadows broke away and entered the sheriff’s office.

She would speak with Clint, provided he lived.

She drew her weapon, slow and quiet. Crossed the street and slid around the back of the jail. There was a window there, just on the far side of the cell.

Gunfire rattled through the night.

Natasha flattened herself to the ground; she could not see who was firing and therefore, did not trust the angle of the shots. She crept along the ground until she was by the window.

Stood slow to peek in.

Clint was there, facing his brother down. Gun in one hand. His brother’s hand twitched.

Natasha raised her pistol and took aim for the back of Barney Barton’s head.

Barney lunged.

Clint pulled the trigger.

His gun clicked; unloaded, empty.

“Aw, gun, no,” Clint managed before Barney had his second pistol out, the barrel pressed against Clint’s forehead.

Natasha shifted her aim down, fired once into Barney’s knee, dropping him over, then her arm moved only slightly and she fired again, hitting the man in the throat.

Clint jerked, hand going automatically to protect his face, as if he could possibly block a bullet with flesh.

Natasha allowed a tiny, satisfied smile to cross her face. “You would be in so much trouble without me,” she said.

Clint knelt by his brother and checked for a heartbeat.

Natasha did not know -- Clint was both terrified of his brother and frequently, unreasonably, protective of the man who’d tried to murder him multiple times -- if Clint would forgive her for his life.

“He’s dead,” Clint said, not lifting his face.

“So, soon, shall we be, if we do not regroup,” Natasha said. There was gunfire coming from outside, in the street. “Stark is with me. Come, if you wish.” She would not blame him if he stayed, barren and unmoving over the body of his brother, but he didn’t. Instead he grabbed Barney’s gun, still in its holster. He rolled his brother over, not looking at the man’s face, and caught up the ammo belt, slinging it over one shoulder.

One of the Hydra gang, clad in black and wearing too many guns strapped over his chest, burst in through the door and Clint was out the window in a quick dive and roll. Natasha shot the man. She grabbed Clint’s hand and dragged him away, back toward the saloon.

Stark was tucked behind the horse trough. A shadow moved behind him and Natasha tracked the shadow, firing at the last possible moment. The man fell with a splash into the trough.

“Oh, very nice, thank you,” Stark said, sarcasm audible even above the sound of the shootout. “Get the guns wet, why not?”

“Next time,” Natasha said, crouching beside him, “I will let you watch your own back.”

The bartender, Rhodey, opened up with the shotgun, sending a spray pattern of lead down the street. Clint dashed into the saloon and was out of sight in seconds.

“He’s not fighting with us?” Stark asked. “‘Cause I’ve got a tiny damn gun here.” He thumbed three more bullets into the toy he held in one hand. He clicked the cylinder into place, counted and then over popped up just long enough to take a knee-shot to someone who was sneaking onto a roof.

Natasha merely glared at Stark; there was no point in giving away Clint’s strategy to what enemies might be listening.

“I hate fighin’ in the dark,” Sam Wilson, the deputy, complained. He was laying on his belly in the street, keeping low behind someone’s horse who’d been shot. Poor beast, an innocent life. Natasha spared a moment of sympathy for the animal that had no business getting involved in a fight among men.

“It is just as inconvenient for them as us,” Stark pointed out.

Natasha listened and heard the creak of the window on the second floor opening. There! A few quiet thrums and men started screaming as Clint brought his bow and arrow into the quarrel. He was better with string and sinew than he was with the mechanical devices; he dropped onto the roof, rolled, strung another arrow and fired.

Bootsteps in the distance spoke of a man fleeing. Natasha tracked him, led the running, popped up. Fired. The muzzle flash nearly blinded her, brilliant in the darkness, but the man uttered a muffled shout and fell. Dead or disabled; he didn’t move again.

Rhodey provided additional cover fire, keeping the men’s heads down, firing indiscriminately whenever someone popped up to return fire in their direction.

For a long, long moment there was silence.

“Are we clear?” Wilson said, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming, thick with dust from the ground on which he lay, stuttering with suppressed emotion.

Another thrum, a hiss, and a body fell, nearly on top of Natasha and Stark.

“Now we’re clear,” Clint said. He jumped down lightly from the rooftop, landing in the street. “Assuming we’re all on the same side, ‘cause I don’t really feel up to being arrested again.”

***

_The main road to Shield Ranch, Iron Valley_

Doc Banner’s place had been locked up and dim. No choice. Despite the pain in his gut, Steve Rogers wasn’t about to cry Uncle and ignore what was going on in his town.

Press on. He kept a hand to the bandage, kept it shoved tight against the wound, despite the pain. Bucky was riding, easy enough. He’d always been graceful in the saddle. Even with a broken arm, he rode horseback like he spoke the language of horses. He tipped his hat to keep the sun from his eyes, but Steve could tell that Bucky’s gaze rarely slowed, keeping a weather eye on the land around them. A man who’d been ambushed, beaten, torn, and lost. Guess that had happened. Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Steve tried to start the conversation a few times; how had Bucky lived through Gettysburg, what had happened to him. Nat had been able to fill in some of the gaps; that Bucky had been taken to a southern prisoner of war camp, tortured for information, but Steve only knew what she’d told him, and nothing else of Bucky’s life after.

Bucky winced a few times. “They --” Bucky said, then stopped. He swallowed hard. “On my shoulder. Too wounded to run, couldn’t even stand up. Bleedin’ heavy. Thought I was gonna die. Wanted to. They fuckin’ branded me. A coward. Because I didn’t fight ‘em.”

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve said. He castigated himself again. He should have been there, should have… done something. “I… I’m so sorry. I --”

“Stevie?” Bucky’s voice was so young, so familiar and Steve had to close his eyes. “It was a _slaughter_ , Steve. You couldn’t… I know you didn’t leave me. I know that.”

“How do you know, if you don’t remember?”

Bucky looked at him, the side of his mouth twitchin’ up into a half-smile. “I never took all the stupid with me, Steve. If you coulda done somethin’, you would have. I just… I don’t even know how I know that, but I do. Little punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve managed. The world shifted and faded around him, pale dust colors going gray and soft in his vision. He was going to fall, he knew that, but he had no way to say, to stop, to arrest the fall.

But Bucky was there, grabbing hold of his shirt, cushioning the long distance to the ground from horseback. Steve slid down the length of him, and Bucky was swearing, his hands red with Steve’s blood.

“You blamed fool,” Bucky snapped, and then Steve was gone.

***

_Shield Ranch, Iron Valley_

It wasn’t hard to find Shield Ranch, even without a local guide, which was good, because Steve Rogers was rapidly losing too much blood. It was bad because the ranch was on fire.

By the time Bucky arrived, leading Steve’s horse with the wounded man tied over the saddle, it was getting dark.

Bucky could have done with an extra hand, to scout and see if it was safe, but there just wasn’t any choice. He kept an eye open, it was the best he could do. Got off his horse and bound it loosely to a tree branch. Led Steve’s horse with it’s precious cargo to the very edge of the darkness. The fire was mostly dead, a few outbuildings smoked fitfully.

There weren’t many people there, a few ranch hands, two horses that seemed fit to ride. Doctor Banner moved from shadow to shadow, talking low enough that Bucky couldn’t catch his voice on the breeze.

Bucky remembered Doctor Banner, a slender, hunch-shouldered man who was soft-voiced and tentative. Tony had trusted the man, and Bucky didn’t have a choice. He led Steve’s horse into the main courtyard, gun at the ready, muzzle pointed down. Bucky didn’t come as a threat, he came for help, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t shoot every man there if he had to.

“The sheriff needs care,” Bucky said, his voice low and urgent. Doctor Banner sighed wearily. “Get him down, I’ll see to him as soon as I can,” he said. “We’ve got some wounded here, too. And you shouldn’t be up and about on that broken arm, just yet, young man.” Bucky felt rather like he’d been scolded by a teacher by the time Banner had rebound his arm.

“What’s goin’ on, Fury,” Steve demanded, as soon as he came to, practically ignoring the way the doctor was poking his stomach, the blood oozing sluggishly over his belly and hip. “What happened out here?”

“Ain’t nothing more than I deserved. Hydra got hold of things, here. Joined up with the Barton gang,” Fury said. The man was torn up, Banner’s report had been thorough and unpleasant. He had a lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, and one hell of a headache. And a collapsed lung. Banner’s skill had been up to the task; digging a bullet out of Steve and stitching up his gut was going to be no problem, as long as there wasn’t any infection. “Took too many chances out here, wanted to trust people. It was a mistake.”

“Who’d you trust that you shouldn’t have?”

“The Captain,” Fury said. “Told him the truth, when I first came out this way. He’s used it against me, ever since. Wants Stark’s land, there’s gold, he thinks, below the iron. Stark comes from money, too easy to have someone back east send law.”

“The West is its own law,” Banner said, philosophically.

“What’s the Captain got on you?” Bucky asked. Blackmail, that was something that could haunt a man for a long time, especially if it was something that wouldn’t go away if this captain went down in the firefight.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve said. He hitched in a deep breath, coughed, and then groaned in pain. “It all goes. Shield’s done. You should have come to me if you were in this much trouble and I might have been able to help you then.”

“Like you’re goin’ anywhere, punk,” Bucky said, crossing his arm to cup at the brace. None of them were in good shape; at this point they’d be damned lucky if Hydra didn’t come back and wipe them out.

“Don’t see that we got much choice, Buck,” Steve pointed out, as if reading Bucky’s thoughts. “We can’t leave the people of Iron Valley in the hands of Alexander Pierce.”

Bucky went cold. “Who?”

“Pierce, the captain,” Fury said. “Why, you know him?”

Bucky went to his knees, memories flooding his brain and washing him away.

***

_Castle Thunder prison, Richmond, Virginia, 1863_

Bucky wasn’t even sure how long the beating had been going on before it penetrated the deep fog of his mind. His body, his _body_ was certain that there could be no greater pain, that eventually they’d have to come to the end of it and he would die. He looked forward to that.

He’d gone in to the prison certain that he wouldn’t break.

Certain that Steve would come for him.

Neither of those things turned out to be true.

He hadn’t even been able to stop screaming.

The only thing he hadn’t done was give them what they wanted. He’d screamed, but he hadn’t talked. And now, hanging in the chains, he knew he was broken. He was beyond broken, they’d hurt him and hurt him and there wasn’t much left to hurt.

They’d find it. They always did.

But he wouldn’t talk.

He couldn’t even remember anymore, how to. He wasn’t a human anymore, not a man. He was just a beast, and a beast couldn’t talk.

The man prodding him with a dull blade had blue eyes. Sharper by far than the blade he carried, which poked and tore skin rather than cutting. It was weak, not meant to sever muscles, just enough to let the blood flow. He drew a line down Bucky’s back. It didn’t even hurt, not anymore, but he didn’t like it. It shivered unpleasantly, itched. Bucky’s hands were bound over his head, it’s not like he could have scratched even if he’d been able to reach. He was so weak. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten, but they forced water, rancid and hot, on him from time to time.

The man had blond hair. Brilliant in the sunlight that filtered into this little cell.

Bucky licked his lips. Dry, parched, his lips ached when his tongue touched them. How could he even notice that, with everything that was broken and bruised and bloody. “Steve?” It was a word. A word that had meant something, once upon a time.

There was no taking the pain away. It lived in his bones and flesh. It was as much a part of him as his heartbeat. But for a brief moment, there was no new pain. The man (Steve?) stop circling him like a vulture, stopped and stared.

“Barnes?” he asked, eyebrow going up. “Did you say something, Barnes?”

There was a sharp, digging agony in his kidney. He moaned, legs going watery. He wasn’t going to be able to die on his feet, he was going to die wiggling on the end of a blade, crying for his best friend.

“Did you say something, Barnes?” The man leaned closer, eyes gleaming. He both did and did not look like Steve. It was too hard to think, he’d forgotten how.

“Bucky,” he said, licking his lip again, almost crying at the flicker of pain through his mouth. “My… my name…”

“Captain Pierce, sir!” Another voice, sharp, clear.

Bucky flinched, couldn’t help it, shivering, wanting… wanting protection. Steve had always helped him. Steve would help him. He drew his eyes up to the man who wasn’t Steve. But who might have been.

“What?”

“She’s here, sir,” the man said. “Says it’s important.”

The man who wasn’t Steve snarled. “We’ll get back to this… Bucky.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Steve would take care of him. Everything was going to be all right.


	12. The Mine with the Iron Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a case of typical Parker luck...

__

 

_Kansas Territories_

Peter Parker had a case of typical Parker luck.

Somewhere in his ancestry, he was quite convinced, his great-great-grandfather or something, had pissed God off but good. Enough so that God looked down on the tiny, flourishing Parker clan and cursed them.

Not, you know, salt-the-earth curse; in any case of man versus God, God would win. If God wanted the Parkers gone, they’d be less than a memory. But the Parkers had a run of bad, bad luck. Peter’s parents had died when he was just a kid, victim to a runaway carriage and some very bad timing about when Mary Parker and her husband had been out walking in the park. Peter himself had been entirely untouched, having veered off for a moment on his tiny toddler legs, to investigate a groundhog’s hole. His memory of the event was a scattering of impressions, noise and screaming and dust.

The most significant seven minutes of his life and he didn’t even remember them.

He’d gone to live with his father’s brother and wife, Uncle Ben and Aunt May, who’d brought a tiny child from New York all the way out to the midwest where they meant to farm and have a life of labor and love. Which had gone pretty well, up until Uncle Ben had been shot by one of Nick Fury’s rough-riders.

Peter had mostly come to terms with it, those first few weeks in Tony Stark’s mines. He was going to die. He was going to die with too much left to do, with responsibilities unfilled. He could have fallen into despair about it, could have followed the example of Stark himself, taken refuge in the bottle.

Instead, Peter decided to embrace it; he was going to live every moment like it was his last, with the goal of going on to his reward with no regrets. He would do everything he could do to make certain his responsibilities were taken care of, that he had no sins, no what ifs.

But he still had a goddamn case of Parker Luck.

For instance: His horse had thrown a shoe right outside of the Lake Texoma and he was forced to bargain with what little coin he had to buy a mule from some local farmers who were bitter, angry, and hostile. They also charged a lot more for the mule than the damn thing was worth, but at least Peter was able to lead his horse most of the way to Sulphur township, where there was a blacksmith.

The detour to the town cost him a day’s ride and the blacksmith took the mule off his hands for the farrier work. Which was great, until apparently the damn mule died when Peter was only a half-hour’s ride from Sulphur, and the blacksmith had borrowed a horse and taken off after Peter. (It wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t, but the guy didn’t want to listen to reason!) Peter managed to get a bit of a lead on the guy and set up a quick rope-trap -- he strung a length of rope about chest high on a mounted man -- and led the blacksmith right into it. It gave him some time while the angry man caught his borrowed mount and by that time, Peter was out of range, and hopefully not worth pursuing for the value of a damn mule that he didn’t know was on its last legs anyway.

He was definitely going to have to go around on the way back to make sure he didn’t aggravate the blacksmith. Mr. Stark wasn’t going to like that; Sulphur was one of the best places to get supplies when Iron Valley was low, and if Peter couldn’t go back, Mr. Stark was going to have to trust someone else, and Peter knew for a fact that Mr. Stark’s trust was scanty and hard-won.

There was a little pride to that, and Peter was entertaining himself with thoughts of Mr. Stark’s trust leading to more (and different) responsibilities around Stark Manor, maybe even being able to assist with the more delicate handling of the iron ore, instead of digging the raw stone from the ground. Not that Peter wasn’t grateful for the opportunity to even work in the mines, but it wasn’t work that he particularly enjoyed, and it seemed a lot of the time that he was always in pain. He wondered if Mr. Stark had considered diversifying. Shield ranch controlled most of the cattle in the area, but their beasts were poorly-fed and stringy. A good herd of cattle could really change up the economy in Iron Valley.

Maybe he’d suggest it, when he got home.

If he got home.

Typical Parker luck.

Three and a half day’s ride to Wichita that ended up taking Peter almost five. By the time he made Wichita, the telegraph station was closed down for the night, and apparently the operator -- one Stan Lee -- was an ancient man, known for taking his sweet time getting in usually no earlier than a bit after lunch.

The taverns Peter could afford to rent rooms in were full, or so seedy he wouldn’t even consider stabling his horse there. So he ended up sleeping in the barn with his horse; which wasn’t so bad because Ned was a patient old beast and not prone to stepping on Peter even when Peter rolled around while he slept. Except that there were bugs in the straw and when Peter stripped off his shirt in the morning for a bit of a wash in the horse trough, he noticed that he was absolutely covered in little red spider bites.

Peter went back to the telegraph station and started his wait; surely, Mr. Lee would come in, he could send the requested telegraphs, wait a few hours for an answer -- the telegraph was an amazing piece of equipment, truly a marvel and it had changed the whole world. Peter understood there were cases now where grievously injured men had been saved by telegraph, that a surgeon could give instructions to a lesser medic in time to keep a man from bleeding to death.

All of which assumed that the operator actually arrived at the station, of course.

Peter waited.

And waited.

And _waited_.

He ended giving a couple nickels to a kid to bring him a drink and a bit of food from the local tavern; Peter didn’t want to lose his place in line. (First. Only. But still.)

That urchin didn’t come back and Peter puffed out a breath in exasperation. When he was a youngun, it would have never occurred to him to steal from adults. Even know, while he knew there were thieves and banditos and evil men, he never desired to become one. It was good, he often thought, that Mr. Stark had come along when he did with an offer of work and security. Peter needed that kind of stability in his life, not to seek vengeance against a man whose crime was made of nothing but whiskey and stupidity. There was no satisfaction in killing a man who couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. The devil would have hold of those sorts, soon enough.

By the time Mr. Lee finally showed up at the operating station, Peter was about half out of his mind with boredom. And then he had to watch as Mr. Lee puttered around and puttered around and took all the telegraphs that had accumulated over night and set them up as messages for runners.

“Can I please, just --”

“Don't interrupt me, Sonny,” Mr. Lee said. “You know how long it takes to translate a telegraph? Takes about thirty-five units to translate one word, an’ if you know what’s good for you, you won’t be wastin’ my time here.”

So Peter had to wait while Mr. Lee translated the telegraphs. While he typed up the various messages. While he called in his runners -- including the urchin who’d taken Peter’s money and hadn’t brought him any lunch! -- and had the messages sent out.

By the time Mr. Lee was ready for Peter, it was almost suppertime. Peter was tired, thirsty, hot, starving, and annoyed.

Mr. Lee wrote up the various telegraphs that Mr. Stark had indicated he required, took the banknote that Mr. Stark had provided. Proceeded to tap in the codes, slow but sure.

“How long does it take?” Peter asked.

“Few minutes to get to New York an’ such. But then they have to write it up, an’ find their boys and send it out to the person who’s supposed to be reading it,” Mr. Lee said. There still wasn’t anyone else in line, so he was willing to lean against the little window and talk with Peter, and Peter supposed that was a good thing. “Once ‘at happens, they have to answer, which might take a while. Depends on if the boys find ‘em right away or not. Then they send out the telegraph and it’ll be right back to me, quick as a fart.”

“All right,” Peter said. “I’m gonna get a room here at one of the taverns, I’ll let you know where, and send your boy to me, as soon as the telegraph comes in?”

“Well, it’ll be faster, if you’re expectin’ an answer, to just come back tomorrow and see if one comes in,” Mr. Lee said.

Right. Peter sighed and nodded.

Time to find someplace to stay.

And something to eat.

***

Peter sat a second day. The third day he got bored and wandered around town.

Got himself into a little bit of trouble, but since it was typical Parker luck, Peter wasn’t too surprised.

He wandered past one of the general stores (there were two, Wichita was huge for a Midwest city. Peter understood that New York was bigger, but he was barely a child when his aunt and uncle moved out west and he didn’t really remember. Peter liked it in Iron Valley, until the Shield Ranch had hired all those rough riders, it had been a friendly neighborhood.)

Wichita, also, was not apparently a friendly neighborhood. There were a great number of men, dark clothes and packing heat (Peter hated guns; he could use them well enough, but he was firmly of the belief that men who carried guns were men who thought they needed to carry a gun, and would therefore, seek out situations in which  a gun was necessary. Like, they bought it, now they needed to use it. Idiots.) who lurked, eyes invisible under the brims of their hats, faces obscured by beards.

They made Peter nervous, and he found himself watching them as he traveled the streets.

One such ruffian had nudged a young mother into a dark alley, his fingers not quite on his gun, but the threat was clear. Her child was clinging to her skirts and it was obvious that he was threatening her.

“What seems to be the trouble here,” Peter said, leaning all casual-like in the mouth of the alley.

The man turned, hand dropping to his gun in surprise. Peter moved his own hand. He didn’t have a gun, but he was quite handy with a lasso, and tying someone up was a great way to get them to stop acting all tough and belligerent. (Well, actually, it usually didn’t, but impotent belligerence was often amusing.)

“You might wanna be mindin’ your own affairs, little man,” the rough rider said. “What’s ‘tween us is family business.”

“Is this man family of yours, ma’am?” Peter asked, tipping his hat up to look at her.

“Only in that he’s the man what killed my husband,” she spat, the child disappearing further behind her, “and wants to take what little money my John left me.”

“Oh, well, I can see that as being truly a family matter,” Peter said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And as such, should be kept well within her family, sir, and not yours.”

“Be on your way, ‘fore you get hurt,” the man said. Peter waited. He knew how this worked. Watched the man’s eyes, the center of his chest. As soon as his fingers twitched again, Peter was ready. He dodged to the side as the gun went off.

“Get down, ma’am,” he yelled, unlimbering his rope and starting the spin.

The woman thrust the child behind a pile of boxes, her bonnet coming undone and her red hair spilling down her back.

Peter didn’t take his eyes off the rough rider, dropped to the ground and swept his leg out, knocking the man to the dust. He was up again in moments, lasso spinning. He tagged the guy, catching him across the leg. Within seconds, he had the guy roped up just like a calf for branding.

Peter stood there for a moment, one foot keeping the rough rider from squirming around too much, although that really didn’t do much for the language he was spewing, which was graphic, ugly, and specific. “Oh, man, put a lid on it,” Peter said.

The red-headed woman picked up her bonnet, looked at it for a moment, then rolled it up, stuffed it in the man’s mouth and tied the ribbons around his head.

“That was clever, ma’a--” Peter stopped talking because he’d just gotten a look at the woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

She smiled at him, dipping her chin a little. “Well, hello there, tiger,” she said.

***

If it wasn’t that his horse couldn’t run that fast, for that long, Peter might have pushed to make the trip in one very long day. But his horse didn’t understand urgency, and Peter had a very bad feeling that something was wrong at home, something was very wrong.

He didn’t know why he felt that way, but Peter had learned a long time ago not to doubt his instincts. As it was, he pushed the horse longer and harder than was strictly wise and turned a three and a half day trip into two, walking the beast and taking his own meals while riding, rather than breaking for camp until it was entirely too dark to travel.

Peter had a packet of telegraphs for Mr. Stark, along with some copies of arrest warrants for the men that Marshal Barnes had been after. The reward was pretty impressive, Peter could see the wounded man wanting to collect those bounties, but the crimes the men were wanted for were pretty harsh. One man, against that gang?

Barnes was lucky to be alive.

And Peter’s instincts punished him, insisting that Barnes was in danger, and if Barnes was, Mr. Stark was.

Peter had lost his parents.

He’d lost his Uncle Ben.

He wasn’t about to lose his boss, too.

“Come on, old boy,” he clucked to his mount. “Just a little more effort an’ I promise I won’t put a saddle on you for at least a week.”

The horse nickered at him and managed to haul himself into an easy lope. Which was good. As they reached the middle of the second day, Peter could see the smoke; thick and black, rising against the sky.

Peter consulted his mental map; Stark Manor was burning. Oh, that was bad. He nudged his horse again; the closest source of information was going to be the mine; there was a secondary entrance just on the near side of the river. Peter would head there first and find out what was going on.

“Hold on, Mr. Stark,” Peter said. “I’m coming.”


	13. Jericho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra comes for the mine, but Tony has a little surprise in store for them...

__

 

_Stark Mines, South Five tunnel_

The mines were surprisingly well-lit. Tony spared no expense for the comfort of his workers.

Rhodey had never been out here, before. He’d been friends with Tones for as long as he could remember; the two of them had spent a good deal of time together when Tones had come into his own as a young man. The death of his father and mother in a carriage accident had driven the  man to drink. Rhodey, as a free (but very poor) black man in New York city kept practically tripping over the millionaire, practically passed out in the gutters.

Maybe at first, the relationship had been about gratitude, a place to stay, money. But what Rhodey had found was a man with no friends, someone who desperately needed friends. Who built weapons and eventually came to the horrific realization that what he was doing was murdering his own countrymen.

A man like that, who needed a friend. And Rhodey, who needed somewhere to belong. They’d come together out of mutual need, and ended up in a place of mutual respect. Rhodey would have taken a bullet for Tones.

But the really amazing part of it was, Tones would do the same thing for him. That was rare. Even after the war was over, after slavery was done, when the colored were allowed to travel, own property, fight for what was theirs. They weren’t equal to the whites; maybe they never would be. Rhodey didn’t know. What he did know was that Tones looked at Rhodey and saw a man. Not a black man, but a man.

One that, in the end, Tones thought was a better person.

Rhodey was pretty sure that wasn’t true either, but Tones didn’t have a lot of self-respect.

The miners had been smart, Rhodey thought. Instead of making the trek into Iron Valley and putting themselves in the way of ambush, they’d sealed the front entrance to the mines and taken refuge in the tunnels.

Unlike other owners, Tones thought ahead; he had emergency supplies stashed in the shafts; food, water, weapons. He’d used sounding equipment to map the mines, put together schematics for the safest, most secure way to dig; reinforced all the shafts, left multiple exits -- although few people who didn’t work in the mines knew that there were secondary and tertiary shafts that led out of the mines in multiple locations. Accidents could, and sometimes did, happen, but Tones made sure that any collapsing tunnels were workable; he would never leave men trapped.

When Tones led the small group from town into the thicket near his property, Deputy Wilson had been confused, but Tones didn’t bother to explain. He just led them into the stream and under the waterfall where the first of his concealed entrances was sealed behind an iron door. He rapped a code against the metal, using the wooden stock of his pistol. The noise was deep and muffled, lost in the rushing water behind them.

Rhodes was shivering by the time someone unlatched the doors. As they entered the cavern and shaft system, the miner closed the door behind them. The mine’s door closed with a clang, and then he turned an enormous cog, sending deep locking shafts into the mine’s rock floor and ceiling.

“Take an army to get through that, and we’ll hear them coming,” Tones said. Further into the mine were deadfalls, prepped in case someone invaded.

“Are you always so distrustful?” Deputy Wilson asked. “This is like you were prepared for an army.”

Tony licked his lip, then brought a flask out from under his vest and took a swig. “I made unspeakable weapons during the war,” he pointed out. “I’m not exactly what you’d consider popular. And people seem to go after those under my care before they come after me. It seemed a good bet to guess that one day, someone would come for the mines. Come on, I have a little surprise for any fool stupid enough to try to breach my defenses.”

***

“Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark,” Peter Parker was saying as he came into the cavern. The young man was filthy-dirty, but smiling brightly. “Thank god you’re all right, Mr. Stark, I saw all the smoke and --”

Parker stopped dead, staring at the dim form only barely illuminated by the lamp light.

“What is that, Mr. Stark?”

“Secret weapon,” Tony said. He took the screwdriver out of his mouth and tucked it in his pocket. He’d stripped down most of the way, wearing only pants and a loose, sleeveless shirt. The smelting kettle was hot as hades, and Tony was coated in grease, soot, and sweat.

That was the Jericho. Beautiful, bold, innovative.

Tony had spent his whole life for this moment; where machines could do the work of ten men, could protect the man operating it.

A suit of armor. Protection. There were a few vulnerable spots, the joints in the elbows and knees, the gorget around the neck was still weak. But aside from that, Tony had taken one of his best guns and failed to so much as put a hole in the first prototype.

Capable of lifting up to five hundred pounds. With digging claws and an chain-and-pulley run pick-axe.

For one man to drive.

The Jericho could do the work of ten, twelve miners. And the driver would be almost perfectly safe. Tony was still working on the drive-system, which was a combination coal burning steam and wind-up. At the moment, the Jericho could be run for almost two hours before it needed to be refueled, but the refueling process needed a second operator, or the driver had to get out of the suit and manually load more coal.

Also, it was more than a little bit hot inside the suit. Better cooling and aeration systems were needed.

The pulley-and-lever system was hard to work; running the suit took practice and control. And god help a man if he fell down in it. Getting back to his feet was going to be a chore. And there was always the risk that a fall would dislodge the coal-burner.

Tony grinned, took out a pocket handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead with it.

“It’s a war machine,” Rhodes said. “Ain’t it fine?”

Tony scowled. “It’s the Jericho,” he said. “To bring the walls down. A personal mining suit. But I think, given the circumstances, it might just be for battle.”

“What are the circumstances?” Parker asked.

“I’d just love for someone to explain that to me, too, man,” Deputy Wilson piped up. “So far, I’ve just been dragged around without knowing who the bad guys are.”

“If they’re shooting at you, they’re bad,” Clint said. “Hi, I’m Clint. I’m afraid this is trouble of my makin’.”

“It’s not,” Tony said. “It’s always the same, what bad men are after, and I don’t aim to give it to them. No matter who is at the core of it, they all want one thing.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Gold. What else do men fight for, ever? Gold, land, power, prestige. Everything else is just pretty excuses to drape around it. A system of war with no accountability, no thought for the lives lost, for the lands ruined. Just land, and money and the things that go with it.”

“You have gold in them thar hills?” Clint asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. When everyone whirled to stare at him, he held up his hands and said, “Aw, joke, no.”

“You will forgive him,” Nat said, rolling her eyes expressively. “I believe he was dropped on his head as a child--”

“Probably true,” Clint said, pulling out a pocket knife and paring his nails.

“--quite often.”

“If you’re lying, I’m dying,” Clint said. “Look, I know I’m just a dumb gun here an’ all, but how many of your men are up to a fight, ‘cause I’m telling you, I got a look ‘round where my brother was making friends for himself; Shield’s ranch has a lot of men an’ most of ‘em aren’t the kindly sort. Can we hold off fifty rough riders in here?”

Tony opened up the suit and stepped into it. “We’re about to find out.”

***

Later, when looking at a map and tracking the movements of the three units -- Steve Rogers’ little band of do-gooders, the remnants of the worse elements of the Shield rough riders along with Rumlow’s gang of train robbers, and Tony Stark’s Iron legions -- it was the perfect storm. Bucky could stare at the map and whistle in appreciation for the accidental meat-grinder they set up between them.

Rogers, Barnes, Banner, along with Fury’s loyalists hounded the group from behind; driving them forward with harrying gunfire and Bucky as the sharpshooter, was picking off key members whenever he could get a clear field of fire.

Without realizing it, the Sheriff’s posse was herding them right into the miners, armed with pick-axes and blasting caps, like hounds to the hunters.

Bucky first realized there was another party in play when the deadfall exploded, throwing men and dirt and blood into the air. The rough riders had gotten to the very edge of the mining valley and while they were all deafened, shaking, and bleeding from that trap, the miners rushed in, yelling and brandishing their melee weapons.

Even so, it would have been a slaughter; Bucky had seen too many battles not to know. Men with guns would almost always beat men without guns. Except then the Iron Man came into the fray.

Bucky didn’t know what it was called; he didn’t know what it was.

A thing of steam and nightmares.

It thundered across the impromptu battlefield, a freakish tangle of man-shape and metal, slow, but implacable. Guns couldn’t stop it, trying to attack it didn’t hold it back. Bucky almost dropped his gun and fled in shock; there was nothing in his brain to make sense of what he was seeing.

In form, like a giant man, perhaps eight feet tall, encased in iron, carrying a smoking, steaming pack over its broad back. One arm was tipped in clawed blades, near a foot long that cut through the enemy like sabers, the other was a terrifying abomination of whirling axes that chewed through the trees and destroyed hiding places.

Bucky flinched from the lurid spray of blood as those spinning axes tore a man to pieces, his screams high pitched, choked, then gone.

“Stark,” Steve murmured, awe and terror in his voice, “you actually did it, you crazy genius bastard drunk, you actually did it.”

“That’s Tony down there? That… that _Iron Man_? Is Tony?” Bucky stared. His feelings, shoved down, ignored while he sorted his memories, dealt with the shock of finding Steve again, combined with the fear and terror and necessity of what they were doing, bubbled up, unchecked.

Gratitude, that Tony had taken him in, entirely unknown. Had trusted him. With a gun, with his faulty memory. With his love.

And Bucky had repaid that by walking away.

Guilt twisted, guilt and unease. Would Tony… would Tony even want him back, now? Because Bucky’s feelings hadn’t changed, even if now he knew who he was. Who he had been. In his heart, he was a Stark. He belonged at the Stark Manor. Tony at his side. Or at Tony’s side.

“We need to help him,” Bucky said. The enemy was rallying, Rumlow’s harsh voice bellowing over the battlefield, organizing. If that Iron Man went down, Tony would be helpless as a turtle flipped on its shell. He flopped down, leaning against a downed tree, scanning the area for targets.

“Keep your head in the game, Buck,” Steve said, clapping him on the back. “Justice will prevail.”

Bucky took his eyes off the field for a moment to stare at Steve. Had the man honestly not been paying attention for the last ten _years_? Justice _rarely_ prevailed; it was an icon, a false god that people bowed to and gave lip service, but that reached into the hearts of so few. He with the most _bullets_ (and the least dysentery) won, that was what Bucky knew.

At least the gun was on his side.

The Iron Man moved through the battle like a train, plowing men and weapons down without care, without faltering. Even as Bucky moved through the targets, picking off men and then moving to avoid being spotted, he kept an eye on the beautiful terror that was Tony’s machine. If Bucky hadn’t already been hopeless, _helplessly_ in love, he would have fallen. The man was a genius, brilliant and terrible at the same time.

Footing was what betrayed the Iron Man in the end, and Rumlow was quick to take advantage. The Iron Man tottered when a downed body rolled under the flat, brutal feet. Tony went to one knee and was struggling to lift the suit. Bucky had no idea how the internal mechanisms worked, but there were strange hissing and popping sounds as gaskets blew and steam leaked from the joints.

Rumlow roared, and in an instant, he was climbing the Iron Man like it was a tree, his cavalry sabre in one hand. Bucky swore, blistering the air. He was out of rounds for the long-gun, at too far a range for his pistols.

“Tony, Tony, no,” Bucky yelled. He drew his weapon and charged into the fray.

“Bucky, no!” Steve screamed from behind him, but there was no way. Bucky couldn’t stand by and watch, no matter the risk to himself.

***

Tony went to his knees. The hot spill of ash down his back was excruciating. Steam blistered at his skin and he wrenched himself straight. Weight came down on the unit’s arm, dragging him off balance.

He couldn’t see. The neck gasket was leaking. He twisted as best he could inside the suit. Someone was climbing up the side of the Jericho. A flash of sharpened steel, and the enemy combatant on his suit was going to end Tony’s life in a matter of seconds. It wouldn’t take long, from that angle, to find the weak spots in the armor, to slide the blade home and Tony would bleed to death, unable to bind his own wounds.

A voice was screaming his name.

Tony coughed, choked. Smoke filled the interior of the suit; he couldn’t breathe. It was almost over, he knew. Maybe a dozen enemies left. His men could take them. They would be safe. _Safe_. That was the most important thing; his own life was negligible, a pittance to pay.

“Tony, Tony, no!”

Tony knew that voice. He tried to turn, move, _something_. The weight on his back was overwhelming, driving him to the ground. The Jericho wasn’t meant for this, wasn’t meant for battle, it was a tool, a tool to make people's lives easier. Safer.

And he’d had to desecrate it, in order to preserve lives.

The suit rolled; he was on his back. Helpless. Like he’d been so many times before. All his wealth and knowledge, useless against the evils of men.

“Tony, Tony, come on, darlin’, work with me here,” a voice begged. “Tell me how to get you outta this thing?”

“Billy?”

“Yeah, darlin’, yeah, it’s me, come on, come on, let me help you,” Billy -- no, his name was Bucky, he wasn’t Tony’s -- was… was crying? Sobbing with the need to hurry. Tony managed to give a few instructions between waves of coughing and choking, before he was too weary and sleep-burred to care. Just… let it alone, leave him, leave…

The world went away for a few moments, darkness and soft warmth enclosed him.

“No, you live,” Bucky yelled in his face, shaking him. Tony coughed, choked. Breathed.

Tony’s eyes fluttered open. “What the hell? What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

Bucky grinned, relieved. “We… we won.”


	14. Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Tony are reunited. Steve finds a little peace of mind. And Natasha has some unfinished business...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains smut in the first section, skip to the stuff at Roger's Homestead if you want plot wrap up

__

_Stark Manor, Iron Valley_

“No,” Tony said, brushing off impatient hands. “I am getting out of this bed. Doc said it was fine, I’m fine, would you --” He sat up, pushing the blankets aside.

Suddenly Tony found himself flat on his back, pinned down, Bucky’s body blocking out the lamp light, a firm mouth pressed down on his. Tony huffed out a breathless laugh at how easily Bucky had set down the tray of soup and weak coffee (another point in favor of getting out of bed, Bucky obviously had no control over the staff, because Tony’s coffee needed to be black as ink and twice as strong as iron before it was considered remotely tolerable) and pounced on him.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t get _up_ ,” Bucky said. His hands were everywhere, working Tony’s night shirt off with agile fingers, then his palms running down Tony’s chest, lightly brushing the still-healing scars over his heart. “Said you couldn’t get out of bed, jus’ yet.”

Tony sighed into Bucky’s kiss. Truth be told, the long recovery had him wondering, what would happen after he was healed? Would Bucky, attentive and sweet and sitting at Tony’s bedside most days, stay? Or would he consider his debt repaid? Tony knew that Sheriff Rogers had offered Bucky land off his homestead, to build his own place and stay.

“And here I thought you were hanging around, hoping for an bequeathment,” Tony said. He was teasing, not expecting Bucky to draw back and scowl at him.

“Z’at what you thought this was?”

“Er --”

“No,” Bucky said, firm. “This ain’t. I’m not interested in your land, Tony, or your money, or your mines. I ain’t still here to pay you back f’r looking after me when I was hurt, neither. I’m here because _of you_ , you damned fool.”

“You talk so sweet,” Tony pointed out. “I’m clay in your hands.”

Bucky sat back, taking his weight off Tony and no, that was wrong. Tony looked up into blue eyes that were hard as steel. “Are we together in this ‘r not? I thought we was, but if… if a quick roll was all you wanted --”

“No, no,” Tony said. He shifted himself upright in the bed, trying to draw Bucky back into those sinful, singular kisses. “Not at all, I just… didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be hurt, when you decided to go.” That was more vulnerable honesty than Tony was used to giving another human being in a single year and he’d offered it up to Bucky on a platter.

“Then stop bein’ stupid and let me kiss you,” Bucky growled and yes, yes, Tony was happy to be kissed, happy to sink back into the bed and feel that hot, heavy weight over him. Bucky paused a moment to strip himself out of his clothes, ruthlessly efficient and not allowing Tony any time to appreciate and admire, but that was okay, because they were both naked and in Tony’s bed with the blankets pooled around their legs before Tony had time to regret it.

Bucky pressed hot, wet kisses over his throat, making Tony tip his head back and moan into the touch. Bucky was all over him, heated and slick, licking his way down Tony’s body. His mouth fastened on one of Tony’s nipples, nipping, sucking hard, then soothing and playing with his tongue, teasing with his fingertip. Tony arched up into the caress, feeling the pull of muscles that hadn’t had much use. He was weak as a kitten, still, and Bucky knew it. Took advantage of it, and god help him, Tony had no will to protest. Didn’t want to stop. The tingling, lightening zings that Bucky was tormenting out of his willing flesh were delightful, delicious, perfect.

Bucky rubbed against him, one naked body to another, wanton friction. All Tony's coherent thoughts tumbled out of reach. He curled a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck and brought him down to crash them together with kisses. He thrust his tongue inside Bucky’s mouth, heedless, thoughtless, reckless.

“Slow down, darlin’,” Bucky said, that drawl going straight from Tony’s ears down to pool in liquid heat at the base of Tony’s spine.

“I don’t want to,” Tony complained, petulant. He wasn’t, really, but wanting had him anxious, eager and grasping at it before someone tore it away.

“I’m tryin’ to go slow,” Bucky said. He tasted Tony’s lip, the tip of his tongue playing over the sensitive skin.

“Why?”

“Because you’re still recoverin’,” Bucky said, and kissed away Tony’s protest, “an’ it’ll give you more pleasure, if I slow down.”

“I don’t think I can take any more pleasure,” Tony said. “This is plenty. I’ve got more pleasure than I can stand already. Give it to me.”

Bucky laughed, a low, purring growl. Cradled the side of Tony’s face in one large hand. His mouth sealed over Tony’s in a lush kiss, tongue seeking, stroking. Gradually, Tony didn’t even know when he’d started, Bucky coaxed Tony into soft, unhurried kisses and caresses, touching every inch of him with gentle fingers until Tony’s very skin was on fire with need.

“I want…” Tony started, swallowed hard, then finished in a rush, “I want to be part of you. Want to be with you. Forever.”

“Yes, yes, darlin’,” Bucky said, peppering his face with kisses.

Tony wrapped his legs around Bucky’s hips, drawing them together, urging Bucky to thrust against Tony’s thigh. Bucky moaned against Tony’s neck, then fiddled with something on the food tray. A cool, slick finger slid between Tony’s legs. Tony shivered, nodded, urged Bucky on. “Want it, yeah, I do, come on, please, Bucky, please,” Tony babbled, his hands carding through Bucky’s hair, feeling the length of it curl around his fingers.

“Hold still,” Bucky chided him after a moment. Tony was writhing and squirming under that sweet, unbearable pressure and pleasure.

“I can’t just lay here while you--”

“Yes, you can.”

Bucky held him down, pressed him into the mattress, keeping Tony’s legs spread, his hips still as he played, his hand twisting tortuously over his body, breached his hole and slicked him up. Tony squirmed restlessly, desire rising with every persuasive caress, his moans absorbed by Bucky’s clever mouth, which licked the sounds away even as they spilled out. With every shift, Bucky spread him further, twisted his wrist, wrung sweet torment out of Tony’s body. Inside him, Tony’s body heated until the flames were dancing along his nerves, tighter and brighter until he was aching for it.

Finally, finally, Bucky pressed his member against Tony’s open hole, hot against Tony’s aching flesh. He slid in, a tight fit, impossible. Tony groaned and twisted, trying to ease the burn and stretch of it. God, Bucky was _huge_ , Tony felt as though he were being ripped in half, split right up the middle and it was too much, too hard, too huge, until suddenly it wasn’t.

“There’s no hurry, darlin’,” Bucky said, soft and urgent against Tony’s ear as he moved with implacable rhythm, branding Tony as his own, changing him from the inside out. His voice dropped, husky and thick with wanting. “No reason to rush, got all the time in th’ world to please… yeah, like that, sweet, just like that, move with me, I got you...”

Tony felt like some sort of wild, primal animal, pinned down by Bucky’s weight and yet, freed by it, flying, soaring in the air like a bird. Caught by the rhythm that Bucky was setting, he raised his hips to it, matched it. All his skin tingled, his senses focused on those places within him that were shivering and shuddering in response to Bucky’s urgent strokes.

“Touch me,” Tony begged. “Please, I need…”

And Bucky was there, balanced above Tony’s body on one arm, the other hand tugging at Tony’s cock, stroking and teasing, hand still slick from whatever he’d used to ease his passage. Tony was within a hair’s breadth of it, reached for the pinnacle of sensation, shuddering along each muscle until he was clenched down on that place where their bodies were joined.

Bucky’s hand moved faster, slick and warm and slippery. Tony rocked up into Bucky’s relentless strokes, and then Bucky moaned. The current of delight hummed through Tony, from where their bodies were joined together all the way into Tony’s chest. He lost his fight with gravity, succumbed to the fall, pleasure washing over him. “Oh, oh, god,” he cried out, twin blossoms of warm wet flowered between them.

Tony opened his eyes, found Bucky gazing down at him with soft satisfaction. Tony considered himself an inventor, an engineer. Emotions should have been approached slow and easy, by degrees and with caution. He threw that all off the train. “I love you,” he confessed.

Bucky’s smile was a thing to behold, spreading out like a sunrise, brilliant and helplessly happy. “Love you, too,” he said.

***

_Rogers Homestead, Iron Valley_

The sun was well up in the sky and Steve Rogers woke up to the sound of his wife bolting from the bed to the chamber pot they kept in the corner of the room where she vomited noisily.

Steve yawned, stretched. Tried not to look at Peggy while she finished emptying her stomach. She stood up, got a cup of water from the ewer, rinsed her mouth out.

“You feeling all right?”

Peggy turned, slow, her face practically glowing. “You slept late today,” she noted.

“Yep,” Steve said. He felt… good. All the way down to his bones, rested. Iron Valley was peaceful, his job was mostly a joke these days. He found that peace was kind, and peace was quiet, and he loved it. And loved his wife. His brow furrowed a little. “Peg?”

“Yes, Steven?”

“Are you…”

“Expecting?” Her hand went down to curl protectively around her belly. “I believe that we are.”

Steve couldn’t stop smiling. “A boy’d be right fine, this time,” he suggested and laughed when Peggy threw one of her embroidered cushions at him.

He got up, dressed. Made a cup of tea for his wife. Put two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and sat on the floor in front of her while the morning passed them by.

Just the way he liked it.

***

_The road, just outside Iron Valley_

Alexander Pierce hadn’t been at the battle. That wasn’t his style. He preferred to send other men to their deaths if he needed them. Foot troops were cheap, expendable. He’d been foiled, but he’d come back another day, another time, make it right. Get what he had coming to him. What he was owed. What he deserved.

He turned his horse; it was just dawning, a new day, a new opportunity. There were men in Wichita who could be lured south by the promise of gold.

Captain Pierce spared a look over his shoulder; Iron Valley was vulnerable. Stark Manor had won, but it had taken a hell of a beating first.

Pierce could get the job done, he knew it.

He rounded the bend of the river and suddenly there was a girl in front of him, red-haired and wild. And familiar.

She had a gun pointed straight at his heart.

“Aw. Did I ruin your moment?”


End file.
